VT 

A2M6 
J  802 


U.C  BERKLLEY  LIBRARY 


UC-NRLF 


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B    3    b7E    fiES 


THE  STEANGEE: 


^  flag,  in  Sm  Jlrfs, 


BY 

AUGUSTUS  FREDERIC  FERDDTAND  YON  KOTZEBUE 


TO  WmCH  ARE  ADDED 


A  DISCRIPTIOli   OP   THE   COSTTTMES— ENTRANCES    AND  EXITS— RBLATIVB    POSITIONS    OP    THB 
PKRPORMERS  ON  THE  STAGE,   AND  THE  WHOLE  OP  THE  STAGE  BUSINESS. 


BOSTON: 


^i'uJi^//^0^£r-^^^ 


THE   STRANGER. 


INTRODUCTION. 


1 


The  Stranger  was  written  by  Kotzebue  Ia  the  year  1787,  during  a 
period  of  severe  illness.  "  Never  before  or  snice,"  he  says,  "  did  I  feel  such 
a  rapid  flow  of  ideas  and  imagery  as  during  that  period  ;  and  I  belie\e  it  to 
be  undeniable  that  b)'  some  kinds  of  illness,  particularly  those  in  yhich  the 
irritation  of  the  nerves  is  increased,  the  powers  of  the  mind  are  abun- 
dantly elevated,  as  diseased  muscles  alone  produce  pearhy 

There  have  been  several  English  versions  of  the  Stranger.  The  present 
one,  which  is  the  most  approved,  is  by  Benjamin  Thompson,  and  has  had 
the  advantage  of  the  emendations  of  Sheridan  and  John  Philip  Kemble. 
One  of  the  most  distinguished  personators  of  the  character  of  the  Stranger 
was  John  Palmer,  whose  tragical  death  will  always  be  remembered  in  con- 
nection with  the  history  of  this  play.  He  was  enacting  the  part  of  the  hero 
on  the  Liverpool  stage,  and  had  exerted  himself  with  great  effect  until,  on 
uttering,  in  a  tone  of  indescribable  pathos,  the  words, 

"  There  is  atwther  s^ndi  a  better  world," 

he  seemed  overpowered  with  emotion.  He  paused  for  the  space  of  almost 
ten  seconds  as  if  waiting  for  the  prompter  to  give  him  the  word — then  put  out 
his  right  hand — heaved  a  convulsive  sigh — fell,  and  never  breathed  after — 
dying  apparently  without  a  pang. 

Augustus  Von  Kotzebue,  the  author  of  the  "Stranger,"  was  doomed  at 
the  age  of  fifty-eight  to  meet  with  a  death  quite  as  tragical  as  any  he  had 
imagined  for  the  hero  of  his  dramas.  The  23d  of  March,  18 19,  he  was 
assassinated  in  his  own  house  at  Manheim  by  Karl  Ludwig Sand,  apolitical 
fanatic,  who  denounced  his  v  ictim  as  a  traitor  to  his  country  and  a  stipen- 
diary of  Russia.  Two  or  three  minutes  before  receiving  his  death-wound, 
Kotzebue  was  seated  with  his  family.  Some  lady  visitors  entered  the  room, 
and  after  the  usual  compliments  were  exchanged,  he  remarked,  while  hold- 
ing his  youngest  son,  scarcely  two  months  old,  in  his  arms,  "  I  was  exactly 
the  age  of  this  child  when  my  father  died."  The  next  moment  Kotzebue 
was  called  out  to  see  Sand,  and,  before  many  moments  more  had  elapsed, 
his  mortal  career  was  terminated. 

Of  such  coincidences  we  may  say  with  Hamlet,  "  there  is  something  in 
ihem  more  than  natural,  if  philosophy  could  but  find  it  out." 


EXITS  AND  ENTRANCES. 

R.  means  Right ;  L.  Left;"Si.  D.  Right  Door;  L.  D.  Left  Door;  S.  E. 
Second  Entrance ;  U.  E.  Upper  Entrance ;  M.  D.  Middle  Door, 

RELATIVE  POSITIONS. 

R.  means  Right;  L.  Left;  C.  Center;  R.  C.  Right  of  Center;  L.  C.  Left 

of  Center, 

N.  B. — Passages  marked  with  inverted  commas,  are  usually  omitted  in 
the  representation. 


ioiaciorvio 


THE    STRANGER. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


THE  STRANGER,  COUNT'S  SON  (five  years  old), 

BARON  STEINFORT,  STRANGER'S  SON  (five  years  old), 

COUNT  WINTERSEN,  MRS.  HALLER, 

MR.  SOLOMON,  COUNTESS  WINTERSEN, 

PETER,  CHARLOTTE, 

FRANCIS,  ANNETTE, 

TOBIAS,  CLAUDINE, 

GEORGE,  STRANGER'S   DAUGHTER   (five 

years  old). 
SUSAN,  SERVANTS,  DANCERS,  &C. 


COSTUMES. 


Stranger. — Dark  grey  doublet  and  pantaloons  trimmed  with  black  velvet, 

boots,  and  slouch  hat. 
Baron  Steinfort. — White  body  and  pantaloons,  with  scarlet  hussar  cloalj 

and  sleeves,  hanging  over  one  shoulder,  the  whole  trimmed  with  gold' 

lace ;  hessian  boots,  cap  and  feathers. 
Count  Wintersen. — A  green  dress  of  the  same  make. 
Solomon. — Brown    coat,    scarlet   embroidered    waistcoat,    black    velvet 

breeches,  striped  stockings,  shoes,  buckles,  full  curled  powdered  wig. 

Second  Dress :  Flowered  silk  suit  and  white  stockings. 
Francis. — Drab  colored  doublet  and  pantaloons,  russet  boots,  and  round 

cap. 
Peter. — White  cotton  body,   grey  fly  and  trunks,  blue  stockings,  russet 
I  _    shoes,  small  round  white  hat,  broad  shirt  collar.     Second  Dress:  Flow- 
ered silk  suit  and  white  stockings. 
Tobias. — Dark  drab  or  grey  body,  with  trunks  of  same,  blue  stockings, 

cap,  and  shoes. 
Count's  Son. — Light  blue  suit,  silver  buttons  and  sash,  white  stockings, 

shoes,  and  cap. 
William  (the  Stranger's  Son). — Buff-colored  dress,  white  stockings,  shoes, 

sash,  and  cap. 
George. — Drab  or  grey  jerkin  and  trunks,  blue  stockings,  and  shoes. 
Mrs.  Haller. — Neat  white  muslin  dress,  very  plainly  trimmed,  white  lace 

head  dress,  confined  in  the  center  of  the  forehead  and  falling  over  the 

shoulders. 
Countess. — Traveling  pelisse,  hat  and  tassel.   Second  Dress:  White  satin. 

richly  trimmed. 
Charlotte. — Blue  or  pink  body  and  white  muslin  petticoat,  trimmed  with 

the  same  color  as  the  body. 


THE  STRANGER. 


ACT    I. 

SoENE  I. — The  skirts  of  Count  WiNTEKSEN's^a/*^. — The  park 
gates  in  the  centre. — On  the  k.  side,  a  low  lodge  among  the 
trees. — On  thei..,  in  the  background,  a  Peasants  hut. 

Enter  Peter,  l. 

Pet.  Pooh !  pooh  ! — never  tell  me.  I'm  a  clever  lad,  for  all 
father's  crying  out  every  minute,  "  Peter,"  and  ''stupid  Peter !" 
But  I  say,  Peter  is  not  stupid,  though  father  will  always  be 
^o  wise.  First,  I  talk  too  much  ;  then  I  talk  too  little  ;  and 
f  I  talk  a  bit  to  myself,  he  calls  me  a  driveller.  Now  I  like 
best  to  talk  to  iinself;  for  I  never  contradict  myself,  and  I 
don't  laugh  at  myself  as  other  folks  do.  That  laughing  is  often 
a  plaguey  teazing  custom.  To  be  sure,  when  Mrs.  Haller  laughs 
one  can  bear  it  well  enough ;  there  is  a  sweetness  even  in  her 
reproof,  that  somehow — But  lud!  I  had  near  forgot  what  I  was 
sent  about.  Yes,  then  they  would  have  laughed  at  me  indeed. 
{Draws  a  green  purse  from  his  pocket.)  I  am  to  carry  this 
money  to  old  Tobias ;  and  Mrs.  Haller  said  I  must  be  sure  not 
to  blab,  or  say  that  she  had  sent  it.  Well,  well,  she  may  be  easy 
for  that  matter ;  not  a  word  shall  drop  from  my  lips.  Mrs. 
Haller  is  charming,  but  silly,  if  father  is  right ;  for  father  says, 
''He  that  sp^ds  his  money  is  not  wise,"  but  "he  who  gives  it 
away,  is  stark  mad."  [Going  up  to  the  Hut.  l.  u.  e. 


6  THE  STKANGER.  [AcT   1. 

Enter  the  Stranger  from  the  Lodge,  r.  u.  e.,  followed  hy 
Francis.  At  sight  of  Peter,  the  Stranger  stops,  looks  sus- 
jnciously  at  him.  Peter  stands  opposite  to  him,  with  his 
mouth  wide  oj^en.  At  length  he  takes  off  his  hat,  scrajpes  a 
how,  and  goes  into  the  hut,  l.  u.  e. 

Stra.     Who  is  that  ? 
Fra.     The  steward's  son. 
Stra.     Of  the  Castle? 
Fra.     Yes. 

Stra.  {After  apaiose.)    You  were — you  were  speaking  last 
night 


Fra,  Of  the  old  countryman  ? 

Stra.  Ay. 

Fra.  You  would  not  hear  me  out. 

Stra.  Proceed. 

Fra.  He  is  poor. 

Stra.  Who  told  you  so. 

Fra.  Himself. 

Stra.  Ay,  ay  ;  he  knows  how  to  tell  his  story,  no  doubt. 

J^ra.  And  to  impose,  you  think. 

Stra.  Eight! 

Fra.  This  man  does  not. 

Stra.  Fool ! 

F/'a.  A  feeling  fool  is  better  than  a  cold  skeptic. 

Stra.  False ! 

Fra.  Charity  begets  gratitude. 

Stra.  False ! 

Fra.  And  blesses  the  giver  more  than  the  receiver. 

Stra.  True. 

Fra.  Well,  sir.     This  countryman 

Stra.  Has  he  complained  to  you? 

Fra.  Yes. 

Stra.  He  who  is  really  unhappy,  never  complains. 
(Pauses.)    Francis,  you  have  had  means  of  education  beyond 

your  lot  in  \:^ ;,  and  hence  you  are  encouraged  to  attempt  im- 
posing on  me : — but  go  on. 

Fra.  His  only  ^on  has  been  taken  from  him. 

Stra.  Taken  from  hitn? 


Scene  i.] 


THE    STKANUEK. 


Fra.     By  the  exigency  of  the  times,  for  a  soldier. 

Stra.     Ay ! 

Fra.     The  old  man  is  poor. 

Stra.     'Tis  likely. 

Fra.     Sick  aud  forsaken. 

8tra,     I  cannot  help  him. 

Fra.     Yes. 

8tra.     How? 

Fra.     By  money.     He  may  buy  his  son's  release. 

8tra.     I'll  see  him  myself. 

Fra.     Do  so. 

8tTa.     But  if  he  is  an  impostor? 

Fra.     He  is  not. 

Stra.     In  that  hut? 

Fra.  In  that  hut.  (Stranger  goes  into  the  hut,  l.  u.  e.)  A 
good  master,  though  one  almost  loses  the  use  of  speech  by 
livmg  with  him.  A  man  kind  and  clear — though  I  cannot 
understand  him.  He  rails  against  the  whole  world,  and  yet  no 
beggar  leaves  his  door  unsatisfied.  I  have  now  lived  three 
years  with  him,  and  yet  I  know  not  who  he  is.  A  hater  of  so- 
ciety, no  doubt;  but  not  by  Providence  intended  to  be  so. 
Misanthropy  in  his  head,  not  in  his  heart. 

Enter  Peter  and  the  STRANGER^<?m  the  hut,  l.  u.  e. 


Pet,     Pray  walk  on. 
Stra.  {To  Francis.) 
So  soon  returned  ! 
Stra. 
Fra. 
Stra. 
Fra. 
Stra. 


Fool! 


[Grosses  to  Francis. 


well. 
Fra. 

Stra. 


What  should  I  do  there  ? 
Did  you  find  it  as  I  said  ? 
This  lad  I  found. 

What  has  he  to  do  with  your  charity  ? 
The  old  man  and  he  underatand  each  other  perfectly 

[Crosses  to  b. 
How? 
What  were  this  boy  and  the  countryman  doing  ? 


Fra.  {Smiling,  and  shaking  hzs  head.)     Well,  you    shall 
{To  Peter.)     Young  man,  what  were  you  doing  in  that 


hear. 

hut  ? 


8  THE    STRANGER.  [ACT    I. 

Pet.     Doing !     Nothing. 

Fra.     Well,  but  jou  could  not  go  there  for  nothing  ! 

Pet.  And  why  not,  pray  ?  But  I  did  go  there  for  nothing, 
though.  Do  you  think  one  must  be  paid  for  everything  ?  If 
Mrs.  Haller  were  to  give  me  but  a  smiling  look,  I'd  jump  up  to 
my  neck  in  the  great  pond  for  nothing. 

Fra.     It  seems,  then,  Mrs.  Haller  sent  you  ? 

Pet.     Yes  she  did  ;  but  I'm  not  to  mention  it  to  anybody. 

Fra.     Why  so  ? 

Pet.  How  should  I  know  ?  "  Look  you,"  says  Mrs.  Haller, 
"Master  Peter,  be  so  good  as  not  to  mention  it  to  anybody," 
{With  tnuch  consequence)  "Master  Peter,  be  so" — Hi!  hi! 
hi! 

Fra.  Oh !  that  is  quite  a  different  thing.  Of  course  you 
must  be  silent  then. 

Pet.  I  know  that ;  and  so  I  am,  too.  For  I  said  to  old  Tobias 
— says  I,  "  Now,  you're  not  to  think  as  how  Mrs.  Haller  sent 
this  money ;  for  she  told  me  not  to  say  a  word  about  that  as  long 
as  I  live,"  says  I. 

I^ra.  There  you  were  very  right.  Did  you  carry  him  much 
irioney  ? 

Pet.  I  don't  know ;  I  didn't  count  it.  It  was  in  a  bit  of  a 
green  purse.  Mayhap  it  may  be  some  little  matter  that  she  has 
scraped  together  in  the  last  fortnight  % 

Fra.     And  why  just  in  the  last  fortnight. 

Pet.  Because,  about  a  fortnight  since  I  carried  him  some 
money  before.  j 

Fra.     From  Mrs.  Haller  ?  I 

Pet.  Ay,  sure;  who  else,  think  you?  Father's  not  such  a, 
fool.  He  says  it  is  our  bounden  duty,  as  Christians,  to  take  care 
of  oi.r  money,  and  not  give  anything  away,  e-pecially  in  Summer ; 
for  then,  says  he,  there's  herbs  and  roots  enough  in  conscience 
to  satisfy  all  the  reasonal^le  hungry  poor.  But  I  say,  father's 
wrong,  and  Mrs.  Haller  right. 

Fra.  Yes,  yes.  But  this  Mrs.  Haller  seems  a  strange  wom^^n, 
Peter? 

Pet.  Ay,  at  times  she  is  plaguey  odd.  Why,  she'll  sit  and  cry 
you  a  whole  day  through,  without  any  one  knowing  why,  orr 


Scene  i.]  the  stranger.  9 

wherefore.  And  somehow  or  other,  whenever  she  cries  I  always 
cry  too — without  knowing  why  or  wherefore. 

Fra.  {To  the  Stranger.)     Are  you  satisfied  '. 

Sti'a.     Rid  uie  of  that  babbler. 

Fra.     Good  day,  Master  Peter. 

Pet.     You're  not  going  yet,  are  you  ? 

Fra.     Mrs.  Haller  will  be  waiting  for  an  answer. 

Pet.  So  she  will.  And  I  have  another  place  or  two  to  call 
at      {Takes  off  his  hat  to  the  Stranger.)     Servant,  sir. 

Stra.     Pshaw ! 

Pet.  Pshaw  !  What  ?  He's  angry.  (Peter  turns  to  Fra'n- 
cis  in  a  half  whisper^  He's  angry,  I  suppose,  because  he  can 
get  nothing  out  of  me. 

Fra.     It  almost  seems  so. 

Pet.     Ay,  I'd  have  him  to  know  I'm  no  blab.         \_Fxit,  l. 

Fra.     Now,  sir. 

Stra.     What  do  you  want  ? 

Fra.     Were  you  not  wrong,  sir. 

Stra.     Hem!     Wrong?  [Crosses,  i^ 

Fra.     Can  you  still  doubt  ? 

Stra.  I'll  hear  no  more.  Who  is  this  Mrs.  Haller?  Why 
do  I  always  follow  her  path  ?  Go  where  I  will,  whenever  I  try 
to  do  good,  she  has  always  been  before  me. 

Fra.     You  should  rejoice  at  that. 

St7'a.     Rejoice ! 

Fra.  Surely— that  there  are  other  good  and  charitable 
people  in  the  world  beside  yourself. 

Str((,     Oh,  yes! 

Fra.  Why  not  seek  to  be  acquainted  with  her?  I  saw  her 
yesterday  in  the  garden  up  at  the  castle.  Mr.  Solomon,  the 
••award,  says  she  has  been  unwell,  and  confined  to  her  room 
almost  ever  since  we  have  been  here.  But  one  would  not 
think  it  to  look  at  her,  for  a   more  beautiful  creature  I  never  saw. 

Stra.     So  much  the  worse.     Beauty  is  a  mask. 

Fra.     In  her  it  seems  a  mirror  of  the  soul.     Her  charities 

Stra.  Talk  not  to  me  of  her  charities.  All  women  wish 
to  be  conspicuous :  in  town  by  their  wit ;  in  the  country  by 
their  heart. 


10  THE    STRANGER.  [AcT  I. 

Fra,     'Tis  immaterial  in  what  way  good  is  done. 

Stra.     No ;  'tis  not  immaterial. 

Fra.     To  this  poor  old  man,  at  least. 

Stra,     He  needs  no  assistance  of  mine. 

Fra.  His  most  urgent  wants,  indeed,  Mrs.  Haller  may  have 
relieved  ;  but  whether  she  has  or  could  have  given  as  much  as 
would  purchase  liberty  for  the  son,  the  prop  of  his  age 

Stra.  Silence!  I  will  not  give  him  a  doit.  {Grosses,  s..) 
You  interest  yourself  very  warmly  in  his  behalf.  Perhaps  you 
are  to  be  a  sharer  in  the  gift. 

'Fra.     Sir,  sir,  that  did  not  come  from  your  heart ! 

Stra.  {Mecollecting  himself.)     Forgive  me. 

Fra.  My  poor  master !  How  must  the  world  have  used  you 
before  it  could  have  instilled  this  hatred  of  mankind,  this  con- 
stant doubt  of  honesty  and  virtue  ? 

Stra.     Leave  me  to  myself. 
\^Throws  himself  071  a  seat,  r.  u.  e./   takes  from  his  pocket 
"  Zimmerman  on  Solit%ider  and  reads. 

Fra.  (Aside,  surveying  him.)  Again  reading!  Thus  it  is 
from  morning  till  night.  To  him  nature  has  no  beauty,  life  no 
charm.  For  three  years  I  have  never  seen  him  smile.  (Tobias 
enters  from  the  hut.)  What  will  be  his  fate  at  last  ?  Nothing 
diverts  him.  Oh,  if  he  would  but  attach  himself  to  any  living 
thing,  were  it  but  an  animal,  for  something  man  must  love! .  ^ 

Tobias  advances,  l.  ^ 

Toh.  Oh,  how  refreshing,  after  seven  long  weeks,  to  fe<il 
these  warm  sunbeams  once  again !  Thanks !  thanks !  bounteoiiis 
Heaven,  for  the  joy  I  taste. 

\^Presses  his  cap  hetween  his  hands,  looks  up  and  pyrays.     The 
Stranger  observes  him  intently. 

Fra.  {To  the  Stranger.)  This  old  man's  share  of  earthly 
happiness  can  be  but  little ;  yet  mark  how  grateful  he  is  for  his 
portion  of  it. 

Stra.  Because,  though  old,  he  is  but  a  child  in  the  leading 
srrnigs  of  Hope. 

Fra.     Hope  is  the  nurse  of  life. 

Stra.    And  her  cradle  is  the  grave. 

[Tobias  replaces  his  cap.     Francis  crosses  behind  to  l. 


Scene  i.]  the  stbangek.  11 

Fra.  I  wish  you  joy.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  so  much  re- 
covered. 

Tob,  Thank  you.  Heaven,  and  the  assistance  of  a  kind 
lady,  have  saved  me  for  another  year  or  two. 

Fra.     How  old  are  you,  pray  ? 

Toh.  "^  Tour  score,  and  four.  To  be  sure,  I  can  expect  but 
little  joy  before  I  die;  yet  there  is  another  and  a  better 
world. 

Fra.     To  the  unfortunate,  then,  death  is  scarce  an  evil. 

Toh.  And  am  I  so  unfortunate  ?  Do  I  not  enjoy  this  glor- 
ious morhing  ?  Am  I  not  in  health  again  ?  Believe  me,  sir, 
he,  who,  leaving  the  bed  of  sickness,  for  the  first  time  breathes 
the  fresh  pure  air,  is,  at  that  moment,  the  happiest  of  his  Maker's 
creatures. 

Fra.     Yet  'tis  a  happiness  that  fails  upon  enjoyment. 

Toh.  True ;  but  less  so  in  old  age.  Some  sixty  years  ago, 
my  father  left  me  this  cottage.  I  was  a  strong  lad ;  and  took 
an  honest  wife.  Heaven  blessed  my  farm  with  rich  crops,  and 
my  marriage  with  five  children.  This  lasted  nine  or  ten  years. 
Two  of  my  children  died.  I  felt  it  sorely.  The  land  was  afflicted 
witlia  famine.  My  wife  assisted  me  in  supporting  our  family  ; 
b  i  :  four  years  after  she  left  our  dwelling  for  a  better  place.     And 


o  my  five  children,  only  one  son  remained.  This  was  blow 
Uj  on  blow.  It  was  long  before  I  regained  my  fortitude.  At 
length,  resignation  and  religion  had  their  effect.  I  again  attached 
myself  to  life.  My  son  grew,  and  helped  me  in  my  work.  Now 
the  State  has  called  him  away  to  bear  a  musket.  This  is  to  me  a 
loss  indeed.  I  can  work  no  more.  I  am  old  and  weak ;  and 
true  it  is  but  for  Mrs.  Haller  I  must  have  perished. 

Fra.     Still,  then,  life  has  charms  for  you? 

Toh.  Why  not,  while  the  world  holds  anything  that's  dear 
to  me  %     Have  not  I  a  son  \ 

Fra.  Who  knows  that  you  will  ever  see  him  more  ?  He  may 
be  dead. 

Toh.  Alas  !  he  may.  But  as  long  as  I  am  not  sure  of  it,  he 
lives  to  me.  And,  if  he  falls,  'tis  in  his  country's  cause.  Nay, 
should  I  lose  him,  still  I  eHould  not  wish  to  die.  Here  is  the 
hut  in  which  I  was  born.     Here  is  the  tree  that  grew  with  me ; 


12  THE    STRANGER.  [AcT    I. 

and,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  confess  it— I  have  a  dog  which  I 
love.  [Stranger  rises  and  advances ^  r. 

Fra.     A  dog ! 

Toh.  Yes.  Smile,  if  you  please,  but  hear  me.  Mj  bene- 
factress once  came  to  ray  hut  herself,  some  time  before  you 
fixed  here.  The  poor  animal,  unused  to  see  the  form  of  ele- 
gance and  beauty  enter  the  door  of  penury,  growled  at  her.  '•  I 
wonder  you  keep  that  surly,  ugly  animal,  Mr.  Tobias,"  said 
she ;  "  you  who  have  hardly  food  enough  for  yourself."  "  Ah, 
madam,"  I  replied,  "  and  if  I  part  with  him,  are  you  sure  that 
anything  else  will  love  me?"  She  was  pleased  with  my 
answer. 

Fra.  {To  Stranger.)  Excuse  me,  sir;  but  I  wish  you  Imd 
listened. 

Stra.     I  have  listened.  [Crosses,  c. 

Fra.  Then  sir,  I  wish  you  would  follow  this  poor  old  man's 
example. 

Stra.  Here  ;  take  this  book  and  lay  it  on  my  desk.  (Fran- 
cis goes  into  the  Lodge  with  the  hook.)  How  much  has  this 
Mrs.  Haller  given  you? 

Toh.  Oh,  sir,  she  has  given  me  so  much  that  I  can  look  to- 
wards Winter  without  fear. 

Stra.     No  more  ? 

Toh.     What  could  I  do  with  more  ?     Ah  !  true  ;  I  might 

Stra.  I  know  it.  You  might  buy  your  son's  release. 
There  !  [Presses  ajpurse  into  his  hand,  and  exit,  k. 

Toh.  What's  all  this?  {Opens  the  pitrse,  and  finds  it  full 
of  gold.)     Merciful  heaven  ! 

Enter  FB.k:^ci%  from  the  Lodge,  just  in  time  to  see  the  Stranger 
give  the  parse. 

— Now  look,  sir  ;  is  c(Hifidence  in  Heaven  unrewarded? 
Fra.     I  wish  you  j<n  .     My  mastv  r  gave  you  this  ?         ^ 
Toh.     Yes,  your  nol>lc  master.       leaven  reward  liim  !  ™ 
Fra.     Jnst  like  him.     He  sent    ;'»-  with  his  b(  ok,  that  no  one 
might  be  witne  s  to  his  bounty.       -^1 

Toh.  He  would  not  even  take  n-  ■  thanks.  He  was  gone  be- 
fore I  could  speak.  v 


Scene  ii.]  the  stranger.  IB 

Fra.     Just  his  way. 

Toh.  Now  I'll  go  as  quick  as  these  old  legs  will  bear  me. 
What  a  delightful  errand  !  I  go  to  release  my  Robert  !  How 
the  lad  will  rejoice !  There  is  a  girl,  too,  in  the  village,  that 
will   rejoice   with  him.     O.  Providence,   how  good  art   thou ! 

\Exit^  L. 


Scene  II. — An  Antechamber  in   Wintersen  Castle, 
Enter  Susan,  r.  meeting  George,  l. 

Susan.  Why,  George  !  Harry  !  Where  have  you  been  loiter- 
ing? Put  down  these  things.  Mrs.  Haller  has  been  calling 
for  you  this  half  hour. 

Geo.  Well,  here  I  am,  then.  What  does  she  want  with 
me  ? 

8iis(tn.     That  she  will  tell  you  herself.     Here  she  comes. 

Enter  Mrs.  Haller,  with  a  letter :  Hannah  Jhllowing,  r. 

Mrs.  IT.  Yery  well  ;  if  those  things  are  done,  let  the  draw- 
ing room  be  made  ready  immediately.  {Exeunt  Maids,  r.) 
And,  George,  run  immediately  into  the  park  and  tell  Mr.  Solo- 
mon I  wish  to  speak  with  him.  {Eait  George,  l.)  I  cannot 
understand  this.  I  do  not  learn  whether  their  coming  to  this 
place  be  but  the  whim  of  a  moment,  or  a  plan  for  a  longer 
stay.  If  the  latter,  farewell,  solitude!  Farewell,  study!  — 
farewell ! — Yes,  I  must  make  room  for  gaiety,  and  mere  fri- 
volity. Yet  could  I  willingly  submit  to  all :  but  should  the 
Countess  give  me  new  proofs  of  her  attachment,  perhaps  of 
her  respect,  oh,  how  will  my  conscience  upbraid  me  !  Or  if  this 
seat  be  visited  by  company,  and  chance  should  conduct  hither 
any  of  my  former  acqiwntance !  Alas  !  alas  !  how  wi*etched  is 
the  being  who  fears  tt?, sight  of  any  one  fellow-creature  !  But, 
oh,  superior  misery  t  >  dread  still  more  the  presence  of  a 
former  friend  !     (Peti^i  knocks^  l.)     Who's  there  % 

Enter  Peter,  l. 
PeL     iN^obody.     It's  only  me. 


14  THE    STRANGER.  [AcT    I. 

Mrs.  H.     So  soon  returned  % 

Pet.  Sharp  lad,  aint  I.  On  the  road  I've  had  a  bit  of  talk 
too,  and 

Mrs.  H.     But  you  have  observed  my  directions  % 

Pet.  Oh,  yes,  yes.  I  told  old  Tobias  as  how  he  would 
never  know,  as  long  as  he  lived,  that  the  money  came  from  you. 

Mrs.  H.     You  found  him  quite  recovered,  1  hope  ? 

Pet.  Ay,  sure  did  I.  He's  coming  out  to-day,  for  the  first 
time. 

Mrs.  H.     I  rejoice  to  hear  it. 

Pet.  He  said  that  he  was  obliged  to  you  for  all ;  and  before 
dinner  would  crawl  up  to  thank  you. 

Mrs.  H.     Good  Peter,  do  me  another  service. 

Pet.  Ay,  a  hundred,  if  you'll  only  let  me  have  a  good  long 
stare  at  you. 

Mrs.  II.  With  all  my  heart.  Observe  when  old  Tobias 
comes,  and  send  him  away.  Tell  him  I  am  busy,  or  asleep,  or  un- 
well, or  what  you  please. 

Pet.     I  will,  I  will. 

Sol.  ( Without.)     There,  there,  go  to  the  post-office. 

Mrs.  H.     Oh  !  here  comes  Mr.  Solomon. 

Pet.  What!  Father?  Ay,  so  there  is.  Father's  a  main 
clever  man ;  he  knows  what's  going  on  all  over  the  world. 

Mrs.  H.  No  wonder;  for  you  know  he  receives  as  many 
letters  as  a  prime  minister  and  all  his  secretaries. 

Enter  Solomon,  l. — Peter  crosses  hehiiid^  l. 

8ol.  Good  morning,  good  morning  to  you,  Mrs.  Haller.  It 
gives  me  infinite  pleasure  to  see  you  look  so  charmingly  well. 
You  have  had  the  goodness  to  send  for  your  humble  servant. 
Any  news  from  the  great  city  ?  There  are  very  weighty 
matters  in  agitation.     I  have  had  my  letters,  too. 

Mrs.  II.  {Siniling.)  I  think,  Mr.  Solomon,  you  must  cor- 
respond with  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe. 

Sol.  Beg  pardon,  not  with  the  whole  world,  Mrs.  Haller ; 
but,  {consequentially,)  to  be  sure,  I  have  correspondents,  on 
whom  I  can  rely,  in  the  chief  cities  of  Europe,  Asia,  Africa, 
and  America. 


Scene  n.]  the  stkangek.  15 

Mrs.  H.  And  yet  I  have  my  doubts  whether  you  know 
what  is  to  happen  this  very  day,  at  this  very  place. 

Sol.  At  this  very  place  !  Nothing  material.  We  meant  to 
have  sown  a  little  barley  to-day,  but  the  ground  is  too  dry; 
and  the  sheep-shearing  is  not  to  be  till  to-morrow. 

I^et.     No,  nor  the  bull-baiting  till 

Sol.  Hold  your  tongue,  blockhead!  Get  about  your  busi- 
ness. 

Pet.  Blockhead !  There  again !  I  suppose  I'm  not  to 
open  my  mouth.     [To  Mrs.  H.)    Good  bye.  [Exii^  r. 

Mrs.  R.     The  Count  will  be  here  to-day. 

Sol.     How!     What! 
I  Mrs.  H.     With  his  lady,  and  his  brother-in-law.  Baron  Stein- 

fort. 

Sol.  My  letters  say  nothing  of  this.  You  are  laughing  at 
your  humble  servant. 

Mrs.  H.     You  know,  sir,  I'm  not  much  given  to  jesting. 

Sol.  Peter  !  {Crosses,  k.)  Good  lack-a-day !  His  Right 
Honorable  Excellency  the  Count  VV^intersen,  and  her  Honorable 
Excellency  the  Countess  Wintersen,  and  his  Honorable  Lord- 
ship Baron  Steinf ort, — and.  Lord  have  mercy  !  nothing  in  proper 
order !     Here,  Peter !  Peter ! 

Enter  Petek,  e. 

Pet.     Well,  now,  what's  the  matter  again  ? 

Sol.  Call  all  the  house  together,  directly !  Send  to  the  game- 
keeper ;  tell  him  to  bring  some  venison.  Tell  Rebecca  to  uncase 
the  furniture,  and  take  the  covering  from  the  Venetian  looking- 
glasses,  that  her  Right  Honorable  Ladyship  the  Countess  may 
look  at  her  gracious  countenance ;  and  tell  the  cook  to  let  me 
see  him  without  loss  of  time ;  and  tell  John  to  catch  a  brace  or 
two  of  cai-p.  And  tell — and  tell — and  tell — tell  Frederick  to  friz 
my  Sunday  wig.  Mercy  on  us — tell — there — go!  {Exit, 
Petek,  r.)  Heavens  and  earth !  So  little  of  the  new  furnishing 
this  old  castle  is  completed  !  Where  are  we  to  put  his  Honor- 
able Lordship  the  Baron? 

Mrs.  H.  Let  him  have  the  little  chamber  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs ;  it  is  a  neat  room,  and  commands  a  beautiful  prospect 


16  THE    STRANGER  [AcT   I. 

Sol.  Yery  right,  very  right.  {Crosses,  l.)  But  that  room 
has  always  been  occupied  by  the  Count's  private  secretary. 
Suppose — Hold,  I  have  it !  You  know  the  little  lodge  at  the 
end  of  the  park ;  we  can  thrust  the  secretary  in  that. 

Mrs.  H.  You  forget,  Mr.  Solomon  ;  you  told  me  that  the 
Stranger  lived  there. 

8ol:  Pshaw !  What  have  we  to  do  with  the  Stranger  ^  Who 
told  him  to  live  there  %     He  must  turn  out. 

Mrs.  H.  That  would  be  unjust ;  for  you  said  that  you  let 
the  dwelling  to  him,  and  by  your  own  account  he  pays  well  for  it. 

8ol.  He  does,  he  does.  But  nobody  knows  who  he  is.  The 
devil  himself  can't  make  him  out.  To  be  sure,  I  lately  received 
a  letter  from  Spain,  which  informed  me  that  a  spy  had  taken 
up  his  abode  in  this  country,  and  from  the  desc^ription 

Mrs.  H.  A  spy !  Ridiculous !  Everything  I  have  heard 
bespeaks  him  to  be  a  man  who  may  be  allowed  to  dwell  any 
where.     His  life  is  solitude  and  silence. 

Sol.     So  it  is. 

Mrs.  H.     You  tell  me,  too,  he  does  much  good. 

Sol.     That  he  does. 

Mrs.  H.     He  hurts  nothing;  not  the  worm  in  his  way. 

Sol.     That  he  does  not. 

Mrs.  H.     He  troubles  no  one ? 

Sol.     True,  true. 

Mrs.  H.     Well,  ^hat  do  you  want  more  ? 

Sol.  I  want  to  know  who  he  is.  H  the  man  would  only 
converse  a  little,  one  might  have  an  opportunity  of  jpumjping  ; 
but  if  one  meets  him  in  the  lime  walk,  or  by  the  river,  it  is 
nothing  but  "  Good  morrow ; "  and  off  he  marches.  Once  or 
twice  I  have  contrived  to  edge  in  a  word :  "  Fine  day." — "  Yes." 
"  Taking  a  little  exercise,  1  perceive."  "  Yes  " — and  off  again 
like  a  shot.  The  devil  take  such  close  fellows,  say  I.  And, 
like  master  like  man ;  not  a  syllable  do  I  know  of  that  mumps, 
his  servant,  except  that  his  name  is  Francis. 

Mrs.  H.  You  are  putting  yourself  into  a  passion,  and  quite 
forget  who  are  expected. 

Sol,  So  I  do — mercy  on  us !  There  now,  you  see  what  mis- 
fortunes arise  from  n(^t  knowing  people. 


Scene  i.]  the  stranger.  17 

Mrs.  H.  'Tis  near  twelve  o'clock  !  If  his  lordship  has  stolen 
an  hour  from  his  usual  sleep,  the  family  must  soon  be  here.  I. 
go  to  my  duty ;  you  will  attend  to  yours,  Mr.  Solomon. 

\Ex,it^  K. 

Sol.  Yes,  I'll  look  after  my  duty,  never  fear.  There  goes 
another  of  the  sannfe  class.  Nobody  knows  who  she  is,  again. 
However,  thus  much  1  do  know  of  her,  that  her  Right  Honor- 
able Ladyship  the  Countess,  all  at  once,  popped  her  into  the 
house,  like  a  blot  of  ink  upon  a  sheet  of  paper;  but  why, 
wherefore,  or  for  what  reason,  not  a  soul  can  tell.  ^'  She  is  to 
manage  the  family  within  doors."  She  to  manage !  Fire  and 
faggots !  Havn't  I  managed  everything,  within  and  without, 
most  reputably,  these  twenty  years?  I  must  own  I  grow  a 
little  old,  and  she  does  take  a  deal  of  pains;  but  all  this  she 
learned  of  me.  When  she  first  came  here — mercy  on  us,  she 
didn't  know  that  linen  was  made  of  flax !  But  what  was  to  be 
expected  from  one  who  has  no  foreign  correspondence  ? 

[Exit.,  L. 

END   OF    ACT   I. 


ACT    II. 

Scene  I. — A  Drawing  Room  in  the  Castle,  with  Sofa   and 

Chairs. 

Enter  Solomon,  l. — Rural  music  hea7'd  l.,  without. 

Pet.  (  Without,  L.)  Stop ;  not  yet,  not  yet ;  but  make  way 
there,  make  way,  my  good  friends,  tenants,  and  villagei-s.  John, 
George,  Frederick  !     Good  friends,  make  way. 

Sol.  It  is  not  the  Count ;  its  only  Baron  Steinfort.  Stand 
back,  I  say  ;  and  stop  the  music  ! 

Enter  Baron  Steinfort,  l.  ushered  in  hy  Peter,  who  mimics 
and  ajpes  his  father, 

I  have  the  honour  to  introduce  to  your  lordship  myself,  Mr. 


18  THE    STRANGER.  [AcT  H. 

Solomon,  who  blesses  the  hour  in  which  fortune  allows  him  to 
become  acquainted  with  the  Honorable  Baron  Steinfort,  (Baron 
passes  Solomon  and  throws  himself  on  the  sofa^  brother-in- 
law  of  his  Right  Honourable  Excellency  Count  Wintersen,  my 
noble  master. 

Pet.     Bless  our  noble  master!  \_Pet^r  is  on  r.  of  sofa. 

Bar.  {Aside.)  Old  and  young,  I  see  they'll  allow  me  no  peace. 
{To  Sol.)  Enough,  enough,  good  Mr.  Solomon,  I  am  a  soldier.  I 
pay  but  few  compliments,  and  require  as  few  from  others. 

Sol.  I  beg  pardon  my  lord.  We  do  live  in  the  country,  to  be 
sure,  but  we  are  acquainted  with  the  reverence  due  to  exalted 
personages,  \_8itting  heside  the  Baron,  l. 

Pet.     Yes,  we  are  acquainted  with  exalted  personages. 

Bar.  What  is  to  become  of  me  ?  Well,  well,  I  hope  we 
shall  become  better  acquainted.  You  must  know,  Mr.  Solomon, 
I  intend  to  assist,  for  a  couple  of  months  at  least,  in  alftacking 
the  well-stocked  cellars  of  Wintersen. 

Sol.  Why  not  whole  years,  my  lord  ?  Inexpressible  would 
be  the  satisfaction  of  your  humble  servant.  And,  though  I  say 
it,  well-stocked  indeed  are  our  cellars.  I  have,  in  every  respect, 
here,  managed  matters  in  so  frugal  and  provident  a  way,  that 
his  Eight  Honorable  Excellency  the  Count  will  be  astonished. 
(Baron  yawns. )  Extremely  sorry  it  is  not  in  my  power  to  enter- 
tain your  lordship. 

Pet.     Extremely  sorry. 

Sol.     Where  can  Mrs.  Haller  have  hid  herself  ? 

Bar.     Mrs.  Haller !     Who  is  she  ? 

Sol.     Why,  who  she  is  I  can't  exactly  tell  your  lordship. 

Pet.     No,  nor  I. 

Sol.  None  of  my  correspondents  give  any  account  of  her. 
She  is  here  in  the  capacity  of  a  kind  of  a  superior  housekeeper. 
Methinks  I  hear  her  silver  voice  upon  the  stairs.  (Crosses  r., 
Peter  crosses  behind  to  l.)  I  will  have  the  honor  of  sending  her 
to  your  lordship  in  an  instant. 

Bar.     Oh,  don't  trouble  yourself. 

Sol.  No  trouble  whatever.  I  remain,  at  all  times,  your 
honorable  lordship's  most  obedient,  humble,  and  devoted  servant. 

[Exit,  bowing,  r. 


Scene  l]  the  sthan(.ek. 


19 


Pet.     Devoted  servant.  {^Exit,  lowing,  l. 

Bar.  Now  for  a  fresh  plague.  Now  am  I  to  be  tormented 
by  some  chattering  old  ugly  hag,  till  I  am  stunned  by  her  noise 
and  officious  hospitality.  O,  patience,  what  a  virtue  art  thou  ! 
Enter  Mrs.  Haller,  r.,  with  a  courtseij  ;  Baron  rises,  and  re- 
turns a  how  in  confusion. 
.Aside.)  No,  old  she  is  not.  {Casts  another  glance  at  her.)  Xo, 
•y  Jove,  nor  ugly. 

3frs.  IT.  I  rejoice,  my  lord,  in  thus  becoming  acquainted 
with  the  brother  of  my  benefactress. 

Bar.  Madam,  that  title  shall  be  doubly  valuable  to  me  since 
it  gives  me  an  introduction  equally  to  be  rejoiced  at. 

Mrs.  II.  (  Without  attending  to  the  coinjjliinent.)  This  lovely 
wearher,  then  has  enticed  the  Count  from  tlie  city. 

Bar.  Not  exactly  that.  You  know  him.  Sunshine  or 
clouds  are  to  him  alike,  as  long  as  eternal  Summer  reigns  in  his 
own  heart  and  family. 

Mrs  H.  The  Count  possesses  a  most  cheerful  and  amiable 
philosophy.  Ever  in  the  same  happy  humor  ;  ever  enjoying  each 
minute  of  his  life.  But  you  must  confess,  my  lord,  that  he  is  a 
favourite  child  of  fortune,  and  has  much  to  be  ajrateful  to  her 
for.  Not  m^*ly  because  she  has  given  him  birth  and  riches,  but 
for  a  native  sweetness  of  temper,  never  to  be  acquired  ;  and  a 
graceful  suavity  of  manners,  whose  school  must  be  the  mind. 
And  need  1  enumerate  among  fortune's  favoi-s,  the  hand  and 
affections  of  your  accomplished  sister  ? 

Bar.  {More  and  more  struclc.)  True,  madam.  My  good, 
easy  brother,  too,  seems  sensible  of  his  happiness,  and  is  re- 
>olved  to  retain  it.  He  has  quitted  the  service,  to  live  here.  I 
am  yet  afraid  he  may  soon  grow  weary  of  Wintersen  and  re- 
tirement. 

Mrs.  H.  I  should  trust  not.  They  who  bear  a  cheerful  and 
unreproaching  conscience  into  solitude,  surely  must  increase  the 
measure  of  their  own  enjoyments.  They  quit  the  poor,  pre- 
carious, the  dependent  pleasures  which  they  borrowed  from  the 
world,  to  draw  a  real  bliss  from  tluit  exhanstless  source  <»f  true 
delight,  the  fountain  of  a  pure  unsullied  heart. 

Bar.     Has  retirement  long  possessed  so  lovely  an  advocate  ? 


20  '  THE    STRANGER.  [AcT    II. 

Mrs.  H.     I  have  lived  here  three  years. 

Bar.  And  never  felt  a  secret  wish  for  the  society  you  left, 
and  must  have  adorned  % 

Mrs.  H.     Never. 

Bar.  To  feel  thus,  belongs  either  to  a  very  rough  or  a  very 
polished  soul.  The  first  sight  convinced  me  in  wliich  class  I 
am  to  place  you. 

Mrs.  H.  (  With  a  sigh.)  There  may,  perhaps,  be  a  third 
class. 

Bar.  Indeed,  madam,  I  wish  not  to  be  thought  forward ; 
but  women  always  seemed  to  me  less  calculated  for  retirement 
than  men.  We  have  a  thousand  employments,  a  thousand 
amusements,  which  you  have  not. 

Mrs.  H.     Dare  I  ask  what  they  are  % 

Bar.     We  ride,  we  hunt,  we  play,  read,  write. 

Mrs.  II.  The  noble  enjoyments  of  the  chase,  and  the  still 
more  noble  enjoyments  of  play,  I  grant  you. 

Bar.  Nay,  but  dare  I  ask,  what  are  your  employments  for  a 
day  ? 

Mrs.  H.  Oh,  my  lord,  you  cannot  imagine  how  quickly 
time  passes,  when  a  certain  uniformity  guides  the  minutes  of 
our  life.  How  often  do  1  ask,  "  Is  Saturday  come  again  so 
soon  % "  On  a  bright  cheerful  morning,  my  books  and  break- 
fast are  carried  out  upon  the  grass-plot.  Then  is  tlie  sweet 
picture  of  reviving  industry,  and  eager  innocence,  always  new 
to  me.  The  bird's  notes  so  often  heard,  still  waken  new  ideas : 
the  herds  are  led  into  the  fields :  the  peasant  bends  his  eye  upon 
his  plough.  Every  thing  lives  and  moves;  and  in  every 
creature's  mind,  it  seems  as  it  were  morning.  Towards  evening, 
I  begin  to  roam  abroad :  f  i-om  the  park  into  the  meadows. 
And  sometimes,  returning,  I  pause  to  look  at  the  village  boys 
and  girls  as  they  play.  Then  do  I  bless  their  innocence,  and 
pray  to  Heaven  those  laughing  thoughtless  houi*s  could  be  their 
lot  forever. 

Bar.  This  is  excellent !  But  these  are  Summer  amusements. 
The  Winter !     The  Winter ! 

Mrs.  H.  Why  for  ever  picture  Winter  like  old  age,  torpid, 
tedious,  and  uncheerful?     Winter  has  its  own  delights  :  this  is 


Scene  i.]  the  strangek.  21 

the  time  to  instruct  and  mend  the  mind  by  reading  and  re- 
flection. At  this  season,  too,  I  often  take  my  harp  and  amuse 
myself  by  playing  or  singing  the  little  favorite  airs  that  remind 
me  of  the  pa»t,  or  solicit  hope  for  the  future. 

Bar.  Happy  indeed  are  they,  who  can  thus  create  and  vary 
their  own  pleasures  and  employments. 

Enter  Peter,  l.     (Mrs.  Haller  crosses  to  Peter.) 

Pet,  Well — well — Pray  now — I  was  ordered — I  can  keep 
him  out  no  longer — 'Tis  old  Tobias :  he  will  come  in. 

Enter  Tobias,  i..^  forcing  his  way.    Exit  Peter,  l. 

Toh.     I  must,  good  Heaven,  I  must. 

Mrs.  H,  {Confused.)  I  have  no  time  at  present — I — I — 
You  see  I  am  not  alone. 

Toh.     Oh !  this  good  gentleman  will  forgive  me. 

Bar.     What  do  you  want  ? 

Toh.  To  return  thanks.  Even  charity  is  a  burden  if  one 
may  not  be  grateful  for  it. 

Mrs.  H.     To-morrow,  good  Tobias ;  to-morrow. 

Bar.  Nay,  no  false  delicacy,  madam.  Allow  him  to  vent 
the  feelings  of  his  heart;  and  permit  me  to  witness  a  scene 
which  convinces  me,  even  more  powerfully  than  your  conver- 
sation, how  nobly  you  employ  your  time.     Speak,  old  man. 

Toh.  Oh,  lady,  that  each  word  which  drops  from  my  lips 
might  call  down  a  blessing  on  your  head  !  I  lay  forsaken  and 
dying  in  my  hut :  not  even  bread  or  hope  remained.  Oh  !  then 
you  came  in  the  form  of  an  angel ;  brought  medicines  to  me ; 
and  your  sweet  consoling  voice  did  more  than  those.  I  am  re- 
covered. To-day,  for  the  first  time,  I  have  returned  thanks  in 
the  presence  of  the  sun :  and  now  I  come  to  you,  noble  lady. 
Let  me  drop  my  tears  upon  your  charitable  hand.  For  your 
sake,  Heaven  has  blessed  my  latter  days.  The  Stranger,  too, 
who  lives  near  me,  has  given  me  a  purse  of  gold  to  buy  my 
son's  release.  I  am  on  my  way  to  the  city :  I  shall  purchase 
my  Robert's  release.  Then  I  shall  have  an  honest  daughter-in- 
la^**'-  \nd  you,  if  ever  after  that  you  pass  our  cottage,  oh! 
v«'iiat  must  y(,n  feel  when  you  say  to  yourself,  "  This  is  my 
\'  Drk ! '' 


22  THE   STKANGEK.  [AcT    II. 

Mrs.  II.  {In  a  tone  of  entreaty.)     Enough,  Tobias ;  enough ! 

Toh.  I  beg  pardon.  I  cannot  utter  what  is  breathing  in  my 
breast.  There  is  One  who  knows  it.  Ma}^  His  blessing  and  jour 
own  heart  reward  you.  •   [Ea^t,  l. 

Mrs.  II.  {Endeavoring  to  bring  about   a  conversation^     I 
suppose,  my  lord,  we  may  expect  the  Count  and  Countess  every  ; 
moment  now? 

Bar.  Not  just  yet,  madam.  He  travels  at  his  leisure.  I  am 
seltish,  perhaps,  in  not  being  anxious  for  his  speed  :  the  delay 
has  procured  me  a  delight  which  I  never  shall  forget. 

Mrs.  II.  {Smiling.)     You  satirise  mankind,  my  lord. 

Bar.     How  so  ? 

Mrs.  H.     In  supposing  such  scenes  to  be  uncommon. 

Bm\  I  confess  I  was  little  prepared  for  such  an  acquaint- 
ance as  yourself.     I  am  extremely  surprised.     When  Solomon 

told  me  your  name  and  situation,  how  could  I  suppose  that 

Pardon  my  curiosity  ;  you  have  been,  or  are  married  ? 

Mrs.  H.  {Suddenly  sinking  from  her  cheerful  raillery  into 
mournful  gloom.)     I  have  been  married,  my  lord. 

Bar.  { Whose  enquiries  evince  curiosity .,  yet  are  restrained 
within  the  hounds  of  the  nicest  res^pect.)     A  widow,  then  ? 

Mrs.  H.  I  beseech  you — there  are  strings  in  the  human 
heart,  which,  touched,  will  sometimes  utter  dreadful  discord — I 
beseech  you 

Bar.  I  understand  you.  I  see  you  know  how  to  conceal 
every  thing  except  your  perfections. 

Mrs.  H.  My  perfections,  alas !  {Rural  music  without^  l.) 
But  1  hear  the  happy  tenantry  announce  the  Count's  arrival. 
Your  pardon,  my  lord  ;  I  must  attend  them.  \^Eodt^  l. 

Bar.  Excellent  creature !  What  is  she,  and  what  can  be 
her  history  ?  I  must  seek  my  sister  instantly.  How  strong  and 
how  sudden  is  the  interest  I  feel  for  her!  But  it  is  a  feeling  I 
ought  to  check.  And  yet,  why  so  ?  Whatever  are  the  emotions 
she  has  inspired,  I  am  sure  they  arise  from  the  perfections  of 
the  mind ;  and  never  shall  be  met  by  unworthiness  in  mine. 

{Exit,  - 


Scene  ii.]  the  stranger.  23 

Scene  II.  —  The  Lawn. 

{Rural  Music^  l.) 

Enter  Solomon  and  Peter,  l.,  ushering  in  the  Count,  Child, 
Countess  Wintersen  hading  the  Child  j'  Mrs.  Hauler,  ^^^ 
Baron,  and  ^^^yk^t^  following. 

Sol.     Welcome,  ten  thousand  welcomes,  your  Excellencies  ! 

Count.  Well,  here  we  are.  Heaven  bless  our  advance  and 
retreat!  Mre.  Haller,  I  bring  you  an  invalid,  who  in  future 
will  swear  to  no  flag  but  yours. 

Mrs.  H.     Mine  flies  for  retreat  and  rural  happiness. 

Count.  But  not  without  retreating  Graces,  and  retiring 
Cupids,  too. 

Countess.  (  Who  has  in  the  nieantim.e  kindly  emhraced  Mrs. 
Haller,  and  hy  her  heen  welcomed  to  Wintersen.  ]  My  dear 
Count,  you  forget  that  I  am  present. 

Count.  Why,  in  the  name  of  chivalry,  how  can  I  do  less  than 
your  gallant  brother,  the  Baron,  who  has  been  so  kind  as  nearly 
to  kill  my  four  greys,  in  order  to  be  here  five  minutes  before 
me  ? 

Bar.  If  I  had  known  all  the  charms  of  this  place,  you  should 
have  said  so  with  justice. 

Countess.     Don't  you  think  William  much  grown  % 

[Puts  William  over  to  Mrs.  Haller. 

Mrs.  H.  The  sweet  boy !  {Stoops  to  kiss  him^  and  deep 
melancholy  overshadows  her  countenance.  Retires  with  the 
Child  a  little^  \..) 

Count.     Well,  Solomon,  you've  provided  a  good  dinner  ? 

Sol.  As  g(^od  as  haste  would  allow,  please  your  Right  Hon-. 
oral)le  Excellency. 

Pet.     Yes,  as  good  as 

[Count  retires  a  little  r.,  with  Solomon  and  Peter. 

Bar.  Tell  me,  I  conjure  you,  sister,  what  jewel  you  have 
thus  buried  in  the  country? 

Qountess      Ha  !  ha !     What,  brother,  you  caught  at  last  % 
a'      '  /?•.     Answer  me. 

.fens.     Well,  her  name  is  Mrs.  ll;dler. 


24  THE    STRANGER.  [AcT   II. 

Bar.     That  I  know  ;  but 


Countess.     But !     Biit  I  know  no  more  myself. 

Bar.     Jesting  apart,  I  wish  to  know. 

Countess.  And,  jesting  apart,  I  wish  you  would  not  plague 
me.  I  have  at  least  a  hundred  thousand  important  things  to  do. 
Heavens !  the  vicar  may  come  to  pay  his  respects  to  me  before 
I  have  been  at  my  toilet ;  of  course,  I  must  consult  my  looking- 
glass  on  the  occasion.  Come,  William,  {crossing,  r.)  will  you 
help  to  dress  me,  or  stay  with  your  father  ? 

Count.     We'll  take  care  of  him.         [Goes  to  the  Child,  c. 

Countess.     Come,  Mrs.  Haller. 

[Mrs.  Haller  crosses  to  the  CouNTEbS. 

[Exit  with  Mrs.  Haller,  Susan  and  Hannah  following,  r. 
Bar,  {Aside,  and  going.)    I  am  in  a  very  singular  humor. 

[Crosses,  k. 

Count.     Whither  so  fast,  good  brother  ? 

Bar.     To  my  apartment :  I  have  letters  to — I , 

Count.  Pshaw  !  Stay.  Let  us  take  a  turn  in  the  park  to- 
gether. 

Bar.  Excuse  me.  I  am  not  perfectly  well.  I  should  be 
but  bad  company.     I [Exit,  r. 

Count.  (Solomon  and  Peter  advance,  howing,  r.)  Well, 
Solomon,  you  are  as  great  a  fool  as  ever,  1  see. 

Sol.  Ha !  ha !  At  your  Eight  Honorable  Excellency's  ser- 
vice. 

Count.  {Points  to  Peter.)     Who  is  that  ape  at  your  elbow  \ 

Sol.  Ape !  Oh  !  That  is — with  respect  to  your  Excellency 
be  it  spoken — the  son  of  my  body ;  by  name,  Peter. 

[Peter  hows. 

Count.     So,  so  ?     Well,  how  goes  all  on  ? 

Sol.  Well  and  good  ;  well  and  good.  Yonr  Kxcellency  will 
see  how  I've  improved  the  park.  You'll  not  know  it  again. 
A  hermitage  here  ;  serpentine  walks  there  ;  an  obelisk  ;  a  ruin  ; 
and  all  so  sparingly,  all  done  with  the  most  economical  econo- 
my. . 

Count.  Well,  I'll  have  a  peep  at  your  obelisk  and  ruins 
while  they  prepare  for  dinner. 


Scene  hi.]  the  stranger.  25 

Sol.  I  have  already  ordered  it  and  will  have  the  honor  of 
attending  your  Eight  Hororable  Excellency. 

Count.  Come,  lead  the  way.  (Solomon  crosses,  l.)  Peter, 
attend  your  young  master  to  the  house ;  ( Gives  the  Child  over 
to  Peter,  r.)  we  must  not  tire  him.  [J^xeunt,  l.  u.  s.  con- 
ducted hy  Solomon  ;  Geokge  and  ^absly  follow. 

Pet.  "We'll  go  round  this  way,  your  little  Excellency,  and 
then  we  shall  see  the  bridge  as  we  go  by ;  and  the  new  boat, 
with  all  the  fine  ribands  and  streamers.  This  way,  your  little 
Excellency.  [Exit,  leading  the  Child,  k.  u.  e. 

Scene  III. — The  Antechamber. 

Enter  Mrs.  Haller,  r. 

Mrs.  H.  What  has  thus  alarmed  and  subdued  me?  My 
tears  flow ;  my  heart  bleeds.  Already  had  I  apparently  over- 
come my  chagrin :  already  had  I  at  last  assumed  that  easy 
gaiety  once  so  natural  to  me,  when  the  sight  of  this  child  in  an 
instant  overpowered  me.  When  the  Countess  called  him  Wil- 
liam— Oh !  she  knew  not  that  she  plunged  a  poignard  in  my 
heart.  1  have  a  William,  too,  who  must  be  as  tall  as  this,  if  he 
be  still  alive.  Ah !  yes,  if  he  be  still  alive.  His  little  sister, 
too!  Why,  fancy,  dost  thou  rack  me  thus?  Why  dost  thou 
image  my  poor  children,  fainting  in  sickness,  and  crying  to 
their  mother?  To  the  mother  who  has  abandoned  them? 
{Weeps.)  What  a  wretched  outcast  am  L  And  that  just  to- 
day I  should  be  doomed  to  feel  these  horrible  emotions  ?  Just 
to-day,  when  disguise  was  so  necessary. 

Enter  Charlotte,  r. 

Char.  {Entering.)  Very  pretty,  very  pretty  indeed  !  Better 
send  me  to  the  garret  at  once.  Your  servant,  Mrs.  Haller.  I 
beg,  madam,  I  may  have  a  room  fit  for  a  respectable  person. 

Mrs.  H.  The  chamber  into  which  you  have  been  shown  is,  I 
think,  a  very  neat  one. 

Char.  A  very  neat  one,  is  it?  Up  the  back  stairs,  and 
over  the  laundry !     I  should  never  be  able  to  close  my  eyes. 

Mrs,  H.  {  Very  mildly.)    I  slept  there  a  whole  year. 


26  THE    STltANGEK.  [AcT    II. 

Chour.  Did  you  ?  Then  I  advise  yon  to  remove  into  it  again, 
and  the  sooner  the  better.  .  I'd  have  you  to  know,  madam,  there 
is  a  material  difference  between  certain  persons  and  certain  per- 
sons. Mucli  depends  upon  the  manner  in  which  one  has  been 
educated.  I  think,  madam,  it  would  only  be  proper  if  you  re- 
signed your  room  to  me. 

Mrs.  H.     If  the  Countess  desires  it,  certainly. 

Char.  The  Countess !  Very  pretty,  indeed  !  Would  you 
have  me  think  of  plaguing  her  ladyship  witli  such  trifles  ?  I  shall 
order  my  trunk  to  be  carried  wherever  1  please. 

Mrs.  H.     Certainly ;  only  not  into  my  cliamber. 

Char,  Provoking  creature !  But  how  could  I  expect  to  find 
breeding  among  creatures  born  of  one  knows  not  whom,  and 
coming  one  knows  not  whence  ? 

Mrs.  H,     The  remark  is  very  just. 

Enter  Peter,  in  haste,  l. 

Pet.     Oh  lud  !     Oh  lud  !     Oh  lud !     Oh  lud !  • 

Mrs.  H.     What's  the  matter  % 

Pet.  The  young  Count  has  fallen  into  the  river  1  His  little 
Excellency  is  drowned ! 

Mrs.H.    Who?     What? 

Pet.     Ills  honor,  my  young  master ! 

Mrs.  H.     Drowned? 

Pet.     Yes. 

Mrs.H.     Dead? 

Pet.     No  ;  he's  not  dead. 

Mrs.  H.  Well,  well,  then  softly ;  you  will  alarm  the  coun- 
tess. 

Pet.     Oh  lud  !     Oh  lud  ! 

Enter  the  Baron,  r. 

Bar.     What  is  the  matter  ?     Why  all  this  noise  % 

Pet.     Noise '{     Why 

Mrs,  n.  Be  not  alanned,  my  lord.  Wliatever  may  have 
happened,  the  dear  child  is  now  at  least  safe.  You  said  so,  I 
think,  master  Peter? 

Pet.    Why,  to  be  sure,  his  little  Excellency  is  not  hurt ;  but 


Scene  hi.]  the  stijanger.  27 

he's  very  wet,  though,  and  the  Count  is  taking  him  by  the  gar- 
den door  to  the  house. 

Bar.  Right,  that  the  Countess  may  not  be  alarmed.  But 
how  could  it  happen  ?     Pray  tell  us,  young  man. 

Pet.     What,  from  beginning  to  end?  \^Crossing  to  Baron. 

Mrs.  H.  Never  mind  particulars.  You  attended  the  dear 
child  % 

Pet.     True 

Mrs.  E.     Into  the  park  % 

Pet.     True. 

Mrs.  H.     And  then  you  went  to  the  river  ? 

Pet.     True.     Why,  rabbit  it,  I  believe  you're  a  witch. 

Mrs.  H.     Well,  and  what  happened  further  ? 

Pet.  Why,  you  see,  his  dear  little  Excellency  would  see  the 
bridge  that  father  built  out  of  the  old  summer  house  ;  and  the 
streamers,  and  the  boat,  and  all  that.  I  only  turned  my  head 
round  for  a  moment,  to  look  after  a  magpie.  Crush !  Down 
went  the  bridge  with  his  little  Excellency ;  and  oh,  how  I  w^as 
scared  to  see  him  carried  down  the  river ! 

Bar.     And  you  drew  him  out  again  directly  ? 

Pet.     No,  Idid'nt. 

Mrs.  H.     No ;  your  father  did  ? 

Pet.     No,  he  did'nt. 

Mrs.  H.     Why,  you  did  not  leave  him  in  the  water  ? 

Pet.  Yes,  we  did !  But  we  bawled  as  loud  as  we  could. 
You  might  have  heard  us  down  to  the  village. 

Mrs.  H.  Ay ;  and  so  the  people  came  immediatly  to  his  as- 
sistance ? 

Pet  No  they  did'nt ;  but  the  Stranger  came,  that  lives  yon- 
der, clooe  to  old  Toby,  and  never  speaks  a  syllable.  Odsbodkins ! 
What  a  devil  of  a  fellow  it  is !  With  a  single  spring  bounce  he 
slaps  into  the  torrent;  sails  and  dives  about  and  about  like  a 
duck  ;  gets  me  hold  of  the  little  angel's  hair,  and.  Heaven  bless 
him,  pulls  him  safe  and  sound  to  dry  land  again.     Ha !  ha  I  ha ! 

Bar.     Is  the  Stranger  with  them  ? 

Pet.  Oh,  lud,  no.  He  ran  aw^ay.  His  Excellency  wanted 
to  thank  him,  and  all  that ;  but  he  was  off ;  vanished — like 
a  ghost.  [  Crosses  to  r. 


28  THE    STKANGEE.  [AcT    II. 

Enter  Solomon,  l. 

Sol.  Oh !  thou  careless  varlet !  I  disown  you  !  What  an 
accident  might  have  happened !  And  how  you  have  terrified 
his  Excellency!  {Crosses  to  Mrs.  Haller.)  But  I  beg  pardon. 
{Bows.)  His  Eight  Honorable  Excellency,  the  Count,  requests 
your 

Bar.     "We  come.     [  Crosses,  and  exit  with  Mrs.  Haller,  l. 

Char.  {Advances,  r.)  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Why,  Mr.  Solomon, 
you  seem  to  have  a  hopeful  pupil. 

Sol.     Ha  !  sirrah ! 

Char.  But,  Mr.  Solomon,  why  were  you  not  nimble  enongli 
to  have  saved  his  young  lordship  ? 

Sol.  Not  in  time,  my  sweet  Miss.  Besides,  mercy  on  us, 
I  should  have  sunk  like  a  lump  of  lead  ;  and  I  happened  to  have 
a  letter  of  consequence  in  my  pocket,  which  would  have  been 
made  totally  illegible,  a  letter  from  Constantinople,  written  by 

Chevalier What's    his   niime?  {Draws    a    letter  from   his 

pochet,  and  putting  it  up  again  directly,  drops  it.  Peter  takes 
it  up  slily  and  unohserved.)  It  contains  momentous  matter,  I 
assure  you.  The  world  will  be  astonished  when  it  comes  to 
light ;  and  not  a  soul  will  suppose  that  old  Solomon  had  a  finger 
in  the  pie. 

ChUr.     No,  that  I  believe. 

Sol.  But  I  must  go  and  see  to  the  cellar.  Miss,  your  most 
obedient  servant.     Oh,  sirrah,  oh !  [^Exit,  l. 

Char.  {With pride.)     Your  servant,  Mr.  Solomon. 

Pet.  Here's  the  letter  from  Constantinople.  I  wonder  what 
it  can  be  about.     Now  for  it !  [  Opens;  it. 

Char.     Aye,  let's  have  it. 

Pet.  (Reads.)  "  If  so  he  you  say  so,  Pll  never  work  for 
you,  never  no  more.  Considering  as  how  your  Sunday  waistcoat 
has  heen  turned  three  times,  it  doesnH  look  amiss,  and  I've 
charged  as  little  as  any  tailor  of^em  all.  You  s'ay  I  must  p)ay 
for  the  huckram  ;  hut  1  say,  Fll  he  damned  if  I  do.  So  na 
more  from  your  loving  nephew,  Timothy  Twist." 

From  Constantinople  !     Why,  Cousin  Tim  writ  it. 

Char.     Cousin  Tim  !     Who  is  he  ? 


Scene  i.]  the  stranger.  29 

Pet.  Good  lack  !  Don't  you  know  cousin  Tim  ?  Why  he's 
one  of  the  best  tailors  in  all 

Clim\  A  tailor !  No,  sir,  I  don't  know  him.  ( Crosses  l.) 
My  father  was  a  state  coachman,  and  wore  his  Highness's  livery. 

\Exit^  L. 

Pet.  {Mimicking.)  "  My  father  was  a  state  coachman,  and 
wore  his  Highness's  livery."  Well,  and  cousin  Tim  could  have 
made  his  Highness's  livery,  if  you  go  to  that.  State  coachman, 
indeed ! 

END  OF  ACT  H. 


ACT   III. 

Scene  I. — The  Skirts  of  the  Park  and  Lodge,  c&c,  «5  hefore. 
The  Stranger  is  discovered  on  a  seat,  reading. 

Enter  Francis,  from  the  Lodge. 

Fra.  Sir,  sir,  dinner  is  ready.  \_Comes  forward,  l. 

Stra.  I  want  no  dinner. 

Fra.  I've  got  something  good. 

Stra.  Eat  it  yourself. 

Fra.  You  are  not  hungry  ? 

Stra.  No.  [Pises. 

Fra.  Nor  I.     The  heat  does  take  away  all  appetite. 

St7'a.  Yes. 

Fra.  I'll  put  it  by  ;  perhaps  at  night 

Stra.  Perhaps. 

Fra.  Dear  sir,  dare  I  speak  ? 

Stra.  Speak. 

Fra.  You  have  done  a  noble  action. 

Stra.  What  ? 

Fra.  You  have  saved  a  fellow  creature's  life. 

Stra.  Peace. 

Fra.  Do  you  know  who  he  was  1 

Stra.  No.  ■ 


30  THE    STKANGEK.  [AcT   III» 

Fra.     The  only  son  of  Count  Wintersen. 

Stra.     Immaterial. 

Fra.  A  gentleman,  by  report  worthy  and  benevolent  as  your- 
self. 

Stra.  {Angry.)     Silence  !     Dare  you  flatter  me  ? 

Fra.  As  I  look  to  Heaven  for  mercy,  I  speak  from  my  heart. 
When  I  observe  how  you  are  doing  good  around  you,  how  you 
are  making  every  individual's  wants  your  own,  and  are  yet  your- 
self unhappy,  alas !  my  heart  bleeds  for  you, 

Stra.  I  thank  you,  Francis.  {Crosses  l.)  lean  only  tliank 
you.  Yet  share  this  consolation  with  me ; — my  sufferings  are 
unmerited.  [  Crosses^  r. 

Fra.     My  poor  master ! 

Stra.  Have  you  forgotten  what  the  old  man  said  this  morn- 
ing ?  ''  There  is  another  and  a  better  world  !"  Oh,  'tis  true. 
Then  let  us  hope  with  fervency,  and  yet  endure  with  patience. 
{QnARi^oTT^  sings. without.)     What's  here? 

Enter  Charlotte,  [singing ,']  from  the  Park  Gate^  l.  u.  e. 

Char.  I  presume,  sir,  you  are  the  strange  gentleman  that 
drew  my  young  master  out  of  the  water  ?  {The  Stranger  reads.) 
Or,  {To  Francis)  are  you  he?  (Francis  makes  a  wry  face.) 
Are  the  creatures  both  dumb?  {Looks  at  thevi  hy  turns.) 
Surely,  old  Solomon  has  fixeJ  two  statues  here,  by  way  of  orna- 
ment ;  for  of  any  use  there  is  no  sign.  {AjjproacJies  Francis.) 
No,  this  is  alive,  and  breathes  ;  yes,  and  moves  its  eyes.  {Baivls 
in  his  ear.)     Good  friend  ! 

Fra.     I'm  not  deaf. 

Char.  No,  nor  dumb,  I  perceive  at  last.  Is  yon  lifeless 
thing  your  master  ? 

Fra,     That  honest,  silent  gentleman,  is  my  master. 

Char.  The  same  that  drew  the  young  Count  out  of  the 
water  ? 

Fra.     The  same. 

Char.  (To  the  Stranger.)  Sir,  my  master  and  mistress,  the 
Count  and  Countess,  present  their  respectful  complinunis,  and 
reipiiest  the  honor  of  your  company  at  a  family  supper  this  even- 


Scene  i.  ]  the  stranger.  31 

Stra.     I  shall  not  come. 

Char.  But  you'll  scarce  send  such  an  uncivil  answer  as  this. 
The  Count  is  overpowered  with  gratitude.  You  saved  his  son's 
life. 

Stra.     I  did  it  willingly. 

Char      And  won't  accept  of  "  I  thank  you,"  in  return  ? 

Stra.     No. 

Char.  You  really  are  cruel,  sir,  I  must  tell  you.  There  are 
three  of  us  ladies  at  the  Castle,  and  we  are  all  dying  with  curi- 
osity to  know  who  you  are.  {Exit  Stranger,  r.)  The  master 
is  crabbed  enough,  how^ever.  Let  me  try  what  I  can  make  of 
the  man.  Pray,  sir — (Francis  crosses,  r.)  The  beginning 
promises  little  enough.     Friend,  why  won't  you  look  at  me. 

Pra.     I  like  to  look  at  green  trees  better  than  green  eyes. 

Char.  Green  eyes,  you  monster!  Who  told  you  that  my 
eyes  were  green?  Let  me  tell  you,  there  have  been  sonnets 
made  on  my  eyes  before  now.     Green  eyes  ! 

Fi'a.     Glad  to  hear  it. 

Char.     To  the  point,  then,  at  once.     What  is  your  master  ? 

jpm.     A  man. 

Char.     I  surmised  as  much.     But  what's  his  name  \ 

Fra.     The  same  as  his  father's. 

Char.     Not  unlikely ;  and  his  father  was 

Fra.     Married. 

Char.     To  whom  ? 

Fra.     To  a  w^oman. 

Char.  {Enraged^  I'll  tell  you  what ;  who  your  master  is,  I 
see  I  shall  not  learn,  and  I  don't  care;  but  I  know  what  you  are. 

Fra.     Well,  what  am  I  % 

Char.     A  bear !  \Exit  at  gate. 

Fra.  Thank  you  !  Now  to  see  how  habit  and  example  cor- 
rupt one's  manners.  I  am  naturally  the  civilest  spoken  fellow 
in  the  world  to  the  pretty  prattling  rogues ;  yet,  following  my 
master's  humor,  I've  rudely  driven  this  wench  away.  I  must 
have  a  peep  at  her,  though.  {Looking  towards  the  Pa/rh  Gate* 

Enter  Stranger,  e. 
Stra.     Is  that  woman  gone  ? 


32  THE    STRANGER.  [ACT   III. 

Fra.     Yes. 

Stra.     Francis. 

Fra      Sir. 

Stra.     We  must  be  gone,  too. 

Fra.     But  whither  % 

Stra.     I  don't  care. 

Fra.     I'll  attend  you. 

Stra.     To  any  place  ? 

Fra.     To  deatli. 

Stroy.     Heaven  grant  it — to  me,  at  least !     There  is  peace. 

Fra.  Peace  is  every  where.  Let  the  storm  rage  without  if 
the  heart  be  but  at  rest.  Yet  I  think  we  are  very  well  where 
we  are :  the  situation  is  inviting ;  and  nature  lavish  of  her 
beauties,  and  of  her  bounties  too. 

Stra.  But  I  am  not  a  wild  beast  to  be  stared  at,  and  sent  for 
as  a  show.     Is  it  fit  I  should  be  ? 

Fra.  Another  of  your  interpretations !  That  a  man,  the  life 
of  whose  only  son  you  have  saved,  should  invite  you  to  his 
house,  seems  to  me  not  very  unnatural. 

Stra.     I  will  not  be  invited  to  any  house. 

Fra.  For  once,  methinks,  you  might  submit.  {Half  aside.) 
You'll  not  be  asked  a  second  time. 

Stra.  Proud  wretches!  They  believe  the  most  essential 
service  is  requited,  if  one  may  but  have  the  honor  of  sitting  at 
their  table.     Let  us  begone.  [^Crosses^  j.. 

Fra.  Yet  hold,  sir !  This  bustle  will  soon  be  over.  Used  to 
the  town,  the  Count  and  his  party  will  soon  be  tired  of  simple 
nature,  and  you  will  again  be  freed  from  observation. 

Stra.     Not  from  your's. 

Fra      This  is  too  much.     Do  I  deserve  your  doubts  ? 

Stra.     Am  I  in  the  wrong? 

Fra.     You  are,  indeed ! 

Stra.     Francis,  my  servant,  you  are  my  only  friend. 

Fra.     That  title  makes  amends  for  all. 

Stra.  But,  look !  look,  Francis !  There  are  uniforms  and  gay 
dresses  in  the  walk  again.  No,  I  must  be  gone.  Here  I'll 
stay  no  longer.  [  Crosses^  r. 

Fra.     Well,  then,  I'll  tie  up  my  bundle. 


Scene  i.]  the  stranger.  33 

Stra.  The  sooner  the  better  !  They  cotae  this  way.  Now 
must  I  shut  myself  in  my  hovel,  and  lose  this  tine  breeze. 
Nay,  if  they  be  3'our  high-bred  class  of  all,  they  may  have  im- 
pudence enough  to  walk  into  my  chamber.  Francis,  1  shall  lock 
the  door. 

[  Goes  into  the  Lodge,  locks  the  door,  and  is  fastening 

the  shutters. 

Fra.     And  I'll  be  your  sentinel. 

Stra.     Very  well.  {Closes  the  shutters, 

Fra.  Now,  should  these  people  be  as  inquisitive  as  their 
maid,  I  must  summon  my  whole  stock  of  impertinence.  But 
their  questions  and  my  answers  need  little  study.  They  can 
learn  nothing  of  the  Stranger  from  me,  for  the  best  of  all  pos- 
sible reasons — I  know  nothing  of  him  myself. 

Enter  Baron  a/i^  Countess, //•c>77i  Gates. 

Countess.  {Comes  down  c.)  There  is  a  strange  face.  The 
servant,  probably. 

Bar.  (l.)     Friend,  can  we  sueak  to  your  master  ? 

F7^a.  (r.)     No. 

Bar.     Only  for  a  few  minutes. 

Fra.     He  has  locked  himself  in  his  room. 

Countess.     Tell  him  a  lady  waits  for  him. 

Fra.     Then  he's  sure  not  to  come. 

Countess.     Does  he  hate  our  sex  ? 

Fra.  He  hates  the  whole  human  race,  but  women  parti- 
cularly. 

Countess.     And  why  ? 

Fra.     He  may  have  been  deceived. 

Countess.     This  is  not  very  courteous. 

Fra.  My  master  is  not  over  courteous ;  but  when  he  sees  a 
chance  of  saving  a  fellow  creature's  life,  he'll  attempt  it  at  the 
hazard  of  his  own. 

Bar.  You  are  right.  Now  hear  the  reason  of  our  visit. 
The  wife  and  brother-in-law  of  the  man  whose  child  your  mas- 
ter has  saved,  wish  to  acknowledge  their  obligations  to  him. 

Fra.     That  he  dislikes.     He  only  wishes  to  live  unnoticed. 

Countess.     He  appears  to  be  unfortunate. 


34  THE    STKANGER.  [AcT    III. 

Fra.     Appears ! 

Countess.  An  affair  of  honor,  perhaps,  or  some  unhappy  at- 
tachment may  have 

Fra.     It  may. 

Countess.     Be  this  as  it  may,  I  wish  to  know  who  he  is. 

Fra.     So  do  I. 

Countess.     What !     Don't  you  know  him  yourself  ? 

Fra.  Oh !  I  know  him  well  enough.  J  mean  his  real 
self — his  heart,  his  soul,  his  worth,  his  honor!  Perhaps  you 
think  one  knows  a  man  when  one  is  acquainted  with  his  name 
and  person. 

Countess.  'Tis  well  said,  friend ;  you  please  me  muci. 
And  now  I  should  like  to  know  you.     Who  are  you  % 

Fra.     Your  humble  servant.  {^Exit^  k. 

Countess.  This  is  affectation.  A  desire  to  appear  singular. 
Every  one  wishes  to  make  himself  distinguished.  One  sails 
roimd  the  world  ;  another  creeps  into  a  hovel. 

Bar.     And  the  man  apes  his  master. 

Countess.  Come,  brother,  let  us  seek  the  Count.  He  and 
Mrs.  Haller  turned  into  the  lawn [Going. 

Bar.     Stay.     First,  a  word  or  two,  sister.     1  am  in  love. 

Coimtess.     For  the  hiindreth  time. 

Bar.     For  the  first  time  in  my  life. 

Countess.     I  wish  you  joy. 

Bar.  Till  now, you  have  evaded  my  inquiries.  Who  is  she? 
I  beseech  you,  sister,  be  serious.     There  is  a  time  for  all  things.^ 

Countess.  Well,  if  I  am  to  be  serious,  I  obe3\  I  do  not 
know  who  Mrs.  Haller  is,  as  I  have  already  told  you  ;  but  what 
I  do  know  of  her  shall  not  be  concealed  from  you.  It  may  now 
be  three  years  ago,  when,  one  evening,  about  twilight,  a  lady  was 
announced,  who  wished  to  speak  with  me  in  private.  Mrs. 
Haller  appeared  with  all  that  grace  and  modesty  which  have 
enchanted  you.  Her  features,  at  that  moment,  bore  keener 
marks  of  the  sorrow  and  confusion  which  have  since  settled  into 
gentle  melancholy.  She  threw  herself  at  my  feet,  and  besought 
me  to  save  a  wretch  who  was  on  the  brink  of  despair.  She  told 
me  she  had  heard  much  of  my  benevolence,  and  offered  herself 
as  a  servant  to  attend  me.     I  endeavoured  to  dive  into  the  cause 


Scene  i.]  the  strangek.  35 

of  her  sufferings,  but  in  vain.  She  concealed  her  secret ;  yet 
opening  to  me  more  and  more  each  day  a  heart,  chosen  by  virtue 
as  her  temple,  and  an  understanding  improved  by  the  most  re- 
fined attainments.  She  no  longer  remained  my  servant  but  be- 
came my  friend,  and,  by  her  own  desire,  has  ever  since  resided 
here.  {Curtseying.)     Brother,  I  have  done. 

Bar,  Too  little  to  satisfy  my  curiosity,  yet  enough  to  make 
me  realize  my  project.  Sister  lend  me  your  aid ;  I  would  marry 
her. 

Countess.    You ! 

Bar.     I. 

Countess.     Baron  Steinfort ! 

Bar.     For  shame!     If  I  understand  you. 

Countess.  Not  so  harsh,  and  not  so  hasty.  Those  great  senti- 
ments of  contempt  of  inequality  in  rank  are  very  fine  in  a 
romance ;  but  we  happen  not  to  be  inhabitants  of  an  ideal  world. 
How  could  you  introduce  her  to  the  circle  we  live  in  ?  You 
surely  would  not  attempt  to  present  her  to 

Bar.  Object  as  you  will,  my  answer  is — Hove.  Sister  you 
see  a  man  before  you  who 

Countess.     Who  wants  a  wife. 

Bar.  No;  who  has  deliberately  poised  advantage  against 
disadvantage — domestic  ease  and  comfort  against  the  false 
gaieties  of  fashion.  I  can  withdraw  into  the  country.  I  need 
no  honors  to  make  my  tenants  happy,  and  my  heart  will  teach 
me  to  make  their  happiness  my  own.  With  such  a  wife  as  this, 
children  who  resemble  her,  and  fortune  enough  to  spread  com- 
fort around  me,  what  would  the  soul  of  man  have  more  ? 

Countess.  This  is  all  vastly  fine.  I  admire  your  plan,  only 
you  seem  to  have  forgotten  one  trifling  circumstance. 

Bar.     And  that  is 

Countess.     Whether  Mrs.  Haller  will  have  you  or  not. 

Bar.  There,  sister,  I  just  want  your  assistance.  Good  Hen- 
rietta. 

Coimtess,  Well,  here's  my  hand.  I'll  do  all  I  can  for  you. 
St!  We  had  near  been  overheard.  They  are  coming.  Be 
patient  and  obedient. 


36  THE    STRANGER.  [AcT    111. 

Enter  at  the  Gates,  Count,  and  Mrs.  Hallek  leaning  on  /lis 
arm,  l.     They  advance,  c. 

Count.  Upon  my  word,  Mi-s.  Haller,  you  are  a  nimble 
walker ;  I  should  be  sorry  to  run  a  race  with  you. 

Mrs.  H.  Custom,  my  lord.  You  need  only  take  the  same 
walk  every  day  for  a  month. 

Count.  Yes;  if  I  wanted  to  resemble  my  greyhounds. 
Well,  what  says  the  Stranger  ? 

Countess.  He  gave  Charlotte  a  flat  refusal ;  and  you  see  his 
door,  and  even  his  shutters  are  closed  against  us. 

Count.  What  an  unaccountable  being.  But  it  won't  do.  I 
m  ust  show  my  gratitude  one  way  or  other.  ( Crosses  to  Steinfort. ) 
Stein  fort,  we  will  take  the  ladies  home,  and  then  you  shal)  try 
once  again  to  see  him.  You  can  talk  to  these  oddities  better  than 
I  can. 

JBar.     If  you  wish  it,  with  all  my  heart. 

Count.     Thank  you,  thank  you.      Come,  ladies ;    come  Mi*s. 
Haller. 
[Exeunt  Countess  and  Mrs.  H.,  Count  <3^??^  Baron,  thro''  Gates. 

Scene  II. — A  Chamber  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  Countess  and  Mrs.  Haller,  r. 

Countess.  Well,  Mrs.  Haller,  how  do  you  like  the  man  that 
just  now  left  us  ? 

Mrs  II.     Who  do  you  mean,  madam  ? 

Countess.     My  brother. 

Mrs.  II.     He  deserves  to  be  your  brother. 

Countess.  {Curtesying.)  Your  most  obedient !  That  shall 
be  written  in  my  pocket  book. 

Mrs.  II.  Without  flattery,  then,  madam,  he  appears  to  be 
most  amiable. 

Countess.     Good  !     And  a  handsome  man  'i 

Mrs.  II     (  With  indifference.)    Oh,  yes. 

Countess.  "Oh,  yes!"  It  sounded  almost  like  "Oh,  no!" 
But  I  must  tell  you,  that  he  looks  upon  you  to  be  a  handsome 
woman.  (Mrs.  Hallee  smiles.)    You  make  no  reply  to  this  ? 


Scene  il]  the  stranger.  37 

Mrs.  H.  What  shall  I  reply  %  Derision  never  fell  from  your 
lips;  andl  am  little  calculated  to  support  it. 

Countes^\  As  little  as  you  are  calculated  to  be  the  cause  of 
it.     No;  I  was  in  earnest.     Now! 

Mrs.  II.  You  confuse  me !  But  why  should  I  play  the 
prude?  I  will  own  there  was  a  time  when  I  thought  myself 
handsome.  'Tis  past.  Alas!  The  enchanting  beauties  of  a 
female  countenance  arise  from  peace  of  mind — the  look,  which 
captivates  an  honorable  man,  must  be  reflected  from  a  noblesoul. 

Countess.  Then  heaven  grant  my  bosom  may  ever  hold  as 
pure  a  heart  as  now  these  eyes  bear  witness  lives  in  yours. 

Mrs.  U.  (  With  siulden  wildness.)      Oh,  heaven  forbid  ! 

Countess.  {Astonished.)     How ! 

Mrs.  H.  (Checking  her  tears.)  Spare  me !  I  am  a  wretch. 
The  sufferings  of  three  years  can  give  me  no  claim  to  your 
friendship — no,  not  even  to  your  compassion.     Oh,  spare  me  ! 

[  Going. 

Countess.  Stay,  Mrs.  Plaller.  For  the  first  time,  I  beg  your 
confidence.     My  brother  loves  you. 

Mrs.  II.  {Starting  and  gazhigfull  in  the  face  of  the  Count- 
ess.)    For  mirth,  too  much — for  earnest,  too  mournful ! 

Countess.  I  revere  that  modest  bhish.  Discover  to  me  who 
you  are.  You  risk  nothing.  Pour  all  your  griefs  into  a  sister's 
bosom.     Am  I  not  kind  ?     And  can  I  not  be  silent  ? 

Mrs.  H.  Alas!  But  a  frank  reliance  on  a  generous  mind  is 
the  greatest  saciifice  to  be  off'ei'ed  by  trtie  repentance.  Tnis 
sacrifice  I  will  (  ffer.  {Hesitating^  Did  you  never  hear — ^pardon 
me — did  you  never  hear — Oh  !  how  shocking  it  is  to  unmask 
a  deception,  which  alone  has  recommended  me  to  your  regard! 
But  it  must  be  so.  Madam — Fie,  Adelade !  Does  pride  be- 
come you?     Did  you  ever  liear  of  the  Countess  Waldbtnirg? 

Countess.  I  think  I  did  hear,  at  the  neighboring  court,  of 
>uch  a  creature.  She  plunged  an  honorable  husband  into  mis- 
ery.    She  ran  away  with  a  villian. 

Mrs.  II,  She  did  indeed.  {Falls  at  the  feet  of  the  Countess.) 
Do  not  cast  me  from  you. 

Countess.     For  Heaven's  sake  !     You  are 

Mrs.  II.     I  am  that  wretch. 


38  THE    STKANGEE.  [AcT    III. 

Cou7itess  {Turning  from  her  in  hor7'or.)  Ha!  Begone!  {Go- 
ing^ hut  her  heart  draws  her  hack.)  Yet,  she  is  iinfortuuate :  she 
is  unfriended.  Iler  image  is  repentance — her  life  the  proof. 
Be  still  awhile,  remorseless  prejudice,  and  let  the  genuine  feel- 
ings of  my  soul  avow — they  do  not  truly  honor  virtue  who  can 
insult  the  erring  heart  that  would  return  to  her  sanctuary.  {Look- 
ing vjith  sorrow  on  her.)  Rise,  I  beseech  you,  rise  !  My  husband 
and  my  brother  may  surprise  us.     I  promise  to  be  silent. 

\^Raising  her. 

Mrs.  II.  Yes,  you  will  be  silent.  l^ut,  oh,  conscience ! 
conscience  !  Thou  never  wilt  be  silent.  [Clasping her  hands.) 
Do  not  cast  me  from  you. 

Countess.  Never  !  Your  lonely  life,  your  silent  anguish  and 
contrition,  may  at  length  atone  your  crime.  And  never  shall 
you  want  an  asylum,  where  jour  penitence  may  lament  your  loss. 
Your  fault  was  youth  and  inexperience.  Your  heart  never  was, 
never  could  be  concerned  in  it. 

Mrs.  H.  Oh,  spare  me !  My  conscience  nevei-  reproaches 
me  so  bitterly  as  when  I  catch  my  base  thoughts  in  search  of 
an  excuse.  No,  nothing  can  palliate  my  guilt;  and  the  only 
just  consolation  left  me  is  to  acquit  the  man  I  wronged,  and 
own  I  erred  without  a  cause  of  fair  complaint. 

Countess,  And  this  is  the  mark  of  true  repentance.  Alas ! 
my  friend,  when  superior  sense,  recommended,  too,  by  superior 
charms  of  person,  assail  a  young  though  wedded 

Mrs.  H.  Ah  !  not'even  that  mean  excuse  is  left  me.  In  all 
that  merits  admiration,  respect,  and  love,  he  was  far,  far  beneath 
my  husband.  But  to  attempt  to  account  for  my  strange  infatu- 
ation— 1  cannot  bear  it.  I  thought  my  liusband's  manner  grew 
colder  to  me.  'Tis  true,  I  knew  that  his  expenses,  and  his  confi- 
dence in  deceitful  friends,  had  embarrassed  his  means  and  clouded 
his  spirits ;  yet  I  thought  he  denied  me  pleasures  and  amusements 
still  within  our  reach.  My  vanity  was  mortified.  My  confidence 
not  courted.  The  serpent  tongue  of  my  seducer  promised  ever}' 
thing.  But  never  could  such  arguments  avail,  till,  assisted  by 
forged  letters,  and  the  treachery  of  a  servant,  whom  I  most 
confided  in,  he  fixed  my  belief  that  my  lord  was  false,  and  that 
all  the  coldness  I  complained  of  was  disgust  to  me  and  love 


Scene  n.]  the  stranger.  39 

for  another — all  his  home-  retrenchments  but  the  means  of 
satisfying  a  rival's  luxury.  Maddened  with  this  conviction, 
(conviction  it  was.  for  artifice  was  most  ingenious  in  its  proof,) 
I  left  my  children — father — husband,  to  follow — a  villian. 

Coimtess.  But  with  such  a  heart,  my  friend  could  not  re- 
main long  in  her  delusion  ? 

Mrs.  H.  Long  enough  to  make  a  sufficient  penitence  im- 
possible. Oh,  what  where  my  sensations  when  the  mist  dis- 
persed before  my  eyes !  I  called  for  my  husband,  but  in  vain ! 
I  listened  for  the  prattle  of  my  children,  but  in  vain ! 

Countess.  (Embraoing  her.)  Here,  here,  on  this  bosom  only 
shall  your  future  teai-s  be  shed ;  and  may  I,  dear  sufferer,  make 
you  again  familiar  with  hope  ! 

,Mrs.  H.     Oh !  impossible ! 

Countess.     Have  you  never  heard  of  your  children? 

Mrs.  H.  .  Never. 

Countess.  We  must  endeavor  to  gain  some  account  of  them. 
We  must— Hold  !  My  husband  and  my  brother  !  Oh,  my  poor 
brother !  I  had  quite  forgotten  him.  Quick,  dear  Mrs.  Haller, 
wipe  your  eyes.     Let  us  meet  them. 

Jf?'s.  H.  Madam,  I'll  follow.  Allow  me  a  moment  to  com- 
pose myself.  {Exit  Countess,  r.)  I  pause !  Oh !  yes — to 
compose  myself!  {Ironically.)  She  little  thinks  it  is  but  to  gain 
one  solitary  moment  to  vent  my  soul's  remorse.  Once,  the 
purpose  of  my  unsettled  mind  was  self-destruction.  Heaven 
knows  how  I  have  sued  for  hope  and  resignation.  I  did  trust 
my  prayers  were  heard.  Oh  !  spare  me  further  trial !  I  feel, 
I  feel  my  heart  and  brain  can  bear  no  more.  [Exit,  R. 

END    OF    ACT   HI. 


40  THE    STK ANGER.  .   ICT   IV. 


ACT    lY. 

Scene  \.—  The  Skirts  of  the  Park,  Lodge,  (&g.,  as  hefore,     A 
Table,  spread  with  Fruits,  c&c. 

Francis  discovered  placing  the  Supper. 

Fra.  I  know  he  loves  to  have  his  early  supper  in  the  fresh 
air;  and,  while  he  sups,  not  that  I  believe  anything  can  amuse 
him,  yet  I  will  try  my  Savoyard's  pretty  voices.  I  have  heard 
him  speak  as  if  he  had  loved  music.  {Music  vnthouf,  l.)  Oh, 
here  they  are. 

Enter,  l.,  Annette  and  Claudine,  playing  on  their  Guitars. 

Ann.    To  welcome  %nirth  and  harmless  glee, 
We  rambling  minstrels,  blithe  and  free, 
With  song  the  laughing  hours  beguile. 
And  wear  a  never  fading  smile  : 

Where'er  we  roam, 

We  find  a  home. 
And  greeting  to  reward  our  toil. 

Clau.    No  anxious  griefs  disturb  our  rest. 
Nor  busy  cares  annoj-^  our  breast ; 
Fearless  we  sink  in  soft  repose, 
While  night  her  sable  mautle  throws. 
With  grateful  lay, 
Hail,  rising  day. 
That  rosy  health  and  peace  besto\\>  ! 

During  the  Duet,  the  Stranger  looks  from  the  Lodge  wind(ni\ 
and  at  the  conclusion,  comes  out. 

Stra.  (r.)     What  mummery  is  this  ? 

Fra.  (r.  c.)     I  hoped  it  might  amuse  you,  sir. 

Stra,     Amuse  me — fool ! 

Fra.  Well,  then,  I  wished  to  amuse  myself  a  little.  I  don't 
think  my  recreations  are  so  very  numerous. 

Stra.  That's  true,  my  poor  fellow;  indeed  they  are  not. 
Let  them  go  on.     I'll  listen.  [Hetires  and  sits  down,  r. 

Fra.  But  to  please  you,  my  poor  master,  I  fear  it  must 
be  a  sadder  strain.  Annette,  have  you  none  but  these  cheerful 
Bongs  ? 

Ann.  O,  plenty.  If  you  are  dolefully  given,  we  can  be  as 
sad  as  night.  I'll  sing  you  an  air  Mrs.  Haller  taught  71  ^  the 
first  year  she  came  to  the  Castle.  •n<    \ 


SCENK    I.]  THE    STKANGEK.  41 

Fra.     Mrs.  Haller !     I  should  like  to  hear  that. 

Ann.     I  have  a  silent  sorrow  here, 

A  grief  I'll  ne'er  impart  ; 
It  breathes  no  eigh,  it  sheds  no  tear, 

But  it  consumes  my  heart. 
This  cherish'd  woe,  this  loved  despair. 

My  lot  forever  be, 
So,  my  soul's  lord,  the  pangs  I  bear. 

Be  never  known  by  chee  ! 

And  when  pale  characters  of  death 

Shall  mark  this  alter'd  cheek, 
When  my  poor  wasted  trembling  breath 

My  life's  last  hope  would  speak, 
I  shall  not  raise  my  ej'es  to  Heaven, 

Nor  mercy  ask  for  me  ;  \ 

My  soul  despairs  to  be  forgiven, 

Unpardon'd,  love,  by  thee. 

8tra.  {Surprised  and  moved?)  Oh !  I  have  heard  that  air 
before,  but  'twas  with  other  words.  {Rises.)  Francis,  share 
our  supper  with  your  friends ;  I  need  none. 

[^Enters  the  Lodge. 

Fra.  So  1  feared.  Well,  {Crosses^  c.)  my  pretty  favorites, 
here  are  refreshments.  {Leads  them  to  the  table.)  So,  dis- 
turbed again  !  Now,  will  this  gentleman  call  for  more  music, 
and  make  my  master  mad  ?  Go,  go,  and  return  when  you  ob- 
serve this  man  is  gone.  {Fxeunt,  l  ,  Annette  aiid  Claudine, 
singing.  Francis  sits  and  eat><.)  I  was  in  kopes  that  I  might 
at  least  eat  my  supper  peaceably  in  the  open  air ;  but  they  follow 
at  our  heels  like  bloodhounds. 

Enter  Baron  y/'6'm  Gates. 

Bar.  (l.)     My  good  friend,  I  must  speak  to  your  master. 
Fra.  (r.)     Can't  serve  you. 
Bar.     Why  not  ? 
Fra.     It's  forbidden. 

Bar.  {Offers  money.)     There  !     Announce  me. 
Fra.     Want  no  money. 
Bar.     Well,  only  announce  me,  then. 

Fra.  {Rising.)  I  will  announce  you,  sir;  but  it  won't  avail. 
I  shall  be  abused,  and  you  rejected.     However,  we  can  but  try. 

[  Going. 
Bar.     I  only  ask  half  a   minute.     (Francis  goes  into  the 


42  THE    STRANEER.  [AcT   I\  . 

Lodge.)  But  when  he  comes^  how  am  I  to  treat  him  ?  I  never 
encountered  a  misanthrope  before.  I  have  heard  of  instructions 
as  to  conduct  in  society,  but  how  am  I  to  behave  towards  a  be- 
ing who  loathes  the  whole  world,  and  his  own  existence,  I  have 
never  learned. 

Enter  the  Stranger,  yr6>m  Lodge. 

Stra.  (r.)     Now ;  what's  your  will  ? 

£ar.  (l.)  I  beg  pardon,  sir,  for — {Suddenly  recognizing 
him.)     Charles ! 

Stra.     Steinfort!  [They  emhrace. 

Bar.     Is  it  really  you,  my  dear  friend  ? 

Stra.     It  is. 

Bar.     Merciful  Heavens !     How  you  are  altered  ! 

Stra.  The  hand  of  misery  lies  heavy  on  me.  But  how  came 
you  here  ?     What  want  you  ? 

Bar.  Strange !  Here  was  I  ruminating  how  to  address  this 
mysterious  recluse  ;  he  appears,  and  proves  to  be  my  old  and 
dearest  friend. 

Stra.  Then  you  were  not  in  search  of  me,  nor  knew  that  I 
lived  here  ? 

Bar.  As  little  as  I  know  who  lives  on  the  summit  of  Cau- 
casus. You  this  morning  saved  the  life  of  my  brother-in-law's 
only  son :  a  grateful  family  wishes  to  behold  you  in  its  circle. 
You  refused  my  sister's  messenger;  therefore,  to  give  more 
weight  to  the  invitation,  I  was  deputed  to  be  the  bearer  of  it. 
And  thus  has  fortune  restored  to  me  a  friend  whom  my  heart 
has  so  long  missed,  and  whom  my  heart  just  now  so  much  re- 
quires. 

Stra.  Yes,  I  am  your  friend;  j^our  sincere  friend.  You 
are  a  true  n  m ;  an  uncommon  man.  Towards  you  my  heart 
is  still  the  saine.  But  if  this  assurance  be  of  any  value  to  you, 
go — leave  me,  and  return  no  more. 

Bar.  Stay  !  All  that  I  see  and' hear  of  you  is  inexplicable. 
'Tis  you ;  but  these,  alas,  are  not  the  features  which  once  en- 
chanted every  female  bosom,  beamed  gaiety  through  all  society, 
and  won  you  friends  before  your  lips  were  opened.  Why  do 
you  avert  your  face  ?     Is  the  sight  of  a  friend  become  hatef "1  ? 


rCENE    I. 


THE    STRAIN GKK.  43 


Or,  do  A'ou  fear  that  I  should  read  in  your  eye  what  passes  in 
y(/nr  sonl  ?  Where  is  that  open  look  of  fire  which  at  once  pene- 
ti-ated  into  every  heart  and  revealed  your  own  ? 

Stra.  (  With  asjperity.)  My  look  penetrate  into  every  heart  I 
Ha !  ha  I  ha  I 

Bo/r.  Oh,  Heavens.^.  Rather  may  I  never  hear  you  laugh, 
than  in  such  a  tone!  -For  Heaven's  sake,  tell  me,  Charles,  tell 
me,  I  conjure  you,  what  has  happened  to  you    • 

Stra.  Things  that  happen  every  day ;  occurrences  heard  of 
in  every  street.  Steinfort,  if  I  am  not  to  hate  you,  ask  me  not 
another  question.     If  I  am  to  love  you,  leave  me. 

Bar.  Oh,  Charles,  awake  the  faded  ideas  of  ])ast  joys.  Feel 
that  a  friend  is  near.  Recollect  the  days  we  passed  in  Hungary, 
when  we  wandered  arm  in  arm  upon  the  banks  of  the  Danube, 
wliile  nature  opeiied  our  hearts  and  made  us  enamored  of 
benevolence  and  friendship.  In  those  blessed  moments  you 
gave  me  this  seal  as  a  pledge  of  your  regard.  Do  j^ou  remem- 
ber it? 

S'rd.     Yes. 

Bar.  Am  I,  since  that  time,  become  less  worthy  of  your 
confidence  ? 

^?m.     No  I 

Bar.  Charles,  it  grieves  me  that  I  am  thus  compelled  to 
enforce  my  rights  upon  you.     Do  you  know  this  scar? 

Sfra.  Comrade  I  Friend !  It  received  and  resisted  the 
stroke  aimed  at  my  life.  I  have  not  forgotten  it.  You  knew 
not  -^'hat  a  present  you  then  made  me. 

Bar.     Speak,  then,  I  beseech  you. 

Stra.     You  cannot  help  me. 

Bar.     Then  I  can  mourn  with  you. 

Stra.     Tliat  I  hate.     Besides,  1  cannot  weep. 

Bar.  Then  give  me  words  instead  of  tears.  Both  relieve 
the  heart. 

Stra.  Relieve  the  heart!  My  heart  is  like  a  close  shut 
sepulchre.  Let  what  is  within  it  moulder  and  decay.  Why,  why 
open  the  wretched  charnel-house  to  spread  a  pestilence  around  ? 

Bar.  How  horrid  are  your  looks !  For  shame !  A  man 
like  you  thus  to  crouch  beneath  the  chance  of  fortune ! 


4:4:  VNGKR.  |  AcT    l\ . 

Stra.  Steinfort!  I  did  think  ^lat  r  jp'.vuor  of  all  man- 
kind was  alike  indifferent  to  me;  but  .  feel  that  it  is  not  so. 
Mj  friend,  you. shall  not  quit  me  without  learning  how  I  have 
been  robbed  of  every  joy  which  life  afforded.  Listen  ;  much 
misery  may  be  contained  in  few  words.  Attracted  by  my 
native  country,  I  quitted  you  and  the  service.  What  pleasincr 
pictures  did  1  form  of  a  life  employed  in  improving  society  and 
diffusing  happiness!  I  fixed  on  Cassel  to  be  my  abode.  All 
went  on  admirably.  I  found  friends.  At  length,  tjo,  I  found 
a  wife  ;  a  lovely,  innocent  creature,  scarce  sixteen  years  of  age. 
Oh !  how  I  loved  her !  She  bore  me  a  son  and  a  daughter. 
Both  were  endowed  by  nature  with  the  beauty  of  their  mother. 
Ask  me  not  how  I  loved  my  wife  and  children  !  Yes ;  then, 
then  I  was  really  happy.  ( Wiping  his  eyes.)  Ila !  a  tear !  I 
could  not  have  believed  it.  Welcome,  old  friends  I  'Twas 
long  since  we  have  known  each  otiier.  Well,  my  story  is  nearly 
ended.  One  of  my  friends,  for  whom  I  had  become  engaged, 
treacherously  lost  me  more  than  half  my  fortune.  This  hurt 
me.  I  was  obliged  to  letrench  my  expenses.  Contentment 
needs  but  little.  I  forgave  him.  Another  friend — a  villain  !  to 
whom  I  was  attached  heart  and  soul,  whom  1  had  assisted  with  my 
means,  and  promoted  by  my  interest — this  fiend  seduced  my 
wife,  and  bore  her  from  me.  Tell  me,  sir,  is  this  enough  to 
justif}'  my  hatred  of  mankind,  and  palliate  my  seclusion 
from  the  world  ?  Kings,  laws,  tyranny,  or  guilt,  can  but  im- 
prison me,  or  kill  me.  But,  O  God !  O  God  !  Oh,  what  are  chains 
or  death,  compared  to  the  tortures  of  a  deceived  yet  doting 
husband  !  [  Crosses,  l. 

Ba7\     To  lament  the  loss  of  a  faithless  wife  is  madness. 

Stra.  Call  it  what  you  please — say  what  you  please — I  love 
her  still. 

Ba/r.     And  where  is  she  ? 

Stra,     I  know  not,  nor  do  1  wish  to  know. 

Bar.     And  your  children  ? 

Stra,     I  left  them  at  a  small  town  hard  by. 

Bar,  But  why  did  you  not  keep  your  children  with  you  ? 
They  would  have  amused  you  in  many  a  dreary  hour. 

Stra.     Amused  me  !     Oh,  yes  !  while  their  likeness  to  their 


{Scene  i.]  the  strange u.  45 

mother  should  every  hour  remind  me  of  my  past  happiness ! 
]^o.  For  tlirce  yeai*s  I  have  never  seen  them.  I  hate  that  any 
human  creature  should  he  near  me,  young  or  old.  Had  not 
ridiculous  habit  made  a  servant  necessary,  I  should  never  have 
engai(ed  liim,  thouiih  lie  is  not  the  worst  among  the  bad. 

Bar.  Such  too  often  are  tlie  consequences  of  great  alliances. 
Tlierefoi'e.  Charles,  I  have  resolved  to  take  a  wife  from  a  lower 
rank  of  life. 

Sir  a.     You  marry  ! 

Bar.  You  shall  see  hei*.  She  is  in  the  house  where  you  are 
expected.     Come  with  me. 

Stra.     AVhat !     I  mix  again  with  the  world  ! 

Bar.  To  do  a  generous  action  without  requiring  thanks  is 
noble  and  praiseworthy.  But  so  obstinately  to  avoid  those  thanks 
as  to  make  the  kindness  a  burthen,  is  affectation. 

Stra.  Leave  me  !  leave  me!  Every  one  tries  to  form  a  circle, 
of  which  he  may  be  the  center  :  so  do  I.  As  long  as  there  re- 
mains a  bird  in  these  woods  to  greet  the  rising  sun  with  its 
melody  I  shall  court  no  other  society.  [Crosses  e. 

Bar.  Do  as  you  please  to-morrow ;  but  give  me  your  company 
this  evening. 

Stra.     No ! 

Bar.  Not  though  it  were  in  your  power,  by  this  single  visit, 
to  secure  the  happiness  of  your  friend  for  life  ? 

Stra.     Ha  !     Then  I  must.     But  how  ? 

Bar.  You  shall  sue  in  my  behalf  to  Mi-s.  Hailer.  You  have 
the  talent  of  persuasion. 

Stra.     I,  my  dear  Steinfort ! 

Bar.  The  happiness  or  misery  of  your  friend  depends  u])on 
it.     ril  contrive  that  you  shall  speak  to  her  alone.     Will  you  ? 

Stra.     I  will ;  but  upon  one  condition. 

Bar.     Name  it. 

Stra.  That  you  allow  me  to  be  gone  to-morrow,  and  not  en- 
deavor to  detain  me. 

Bar.     Go !     Whither  ? 

Stra.     No  matter.     Promise  this,  or  I  will  not  come. 

Bar.     Well,  I  do  promise.     Come. 

Stra.     I  have  directions  to  give  my  servant.     [Crosses,  l. 


46  THE    STRANGER.  [x\CT   IV. 

Bar.  In  half  an  hour,  then,  we  shall  expect  you.  liemember, 
you  have  given  your  word. 

Stra.  I  have.  {Exit  Baron  through  gates.  The  Stranger 
walks  up  and  down^  thoiightful  and  melancholy.)  Francis! 
Francis! 

Enter  Frances,  j/r^'m  Lodge, 

Stra.     Why  are  you  out  of  the  way  ? 

Era.     Sir,  I  came  when  1  heard  you  call. 

Stra.     I  shall  leave  this  place  to-morrow. 

Era.     With  all  my  heart. 

Stra.     Perhaps  to  go  into  another  land. 

E/'a.     With  all  my  heart  again. 

Stra.     Perhaps  into  another  quarter  of  the  globe. 

Era.     With  all  my  heart  still.     Into  which  quarter  ? 

Stra.  Wherever  Heaven  directs !  Away !  away !  from 
Europe !  From  this  cultivated  moral  lazaret !  Do  you  hear, 
Francis  ?     To-morrow,  early. 

Era.     Yery  well.  [Going. 

Stra.  Come  here,  come  here  first,  I  have  an  errand  for  you. 
Hire  that  carriage  in  the  village ;  drive  to  the  town  hard  by ; 
you  may  be  back  by  sunset.  I  shall  give  you  a  letter  to  a 
widow  who  lives  there.  With  her  you  will  find  two  children. 
They  are  mine. 

Era.  (Astonished.)     Your  children,  sir? 

Stra.     Take  them  and  bring  them  hither. 

Era.     Your  children,  sir  ? 

Stra.     Yes,  mine !     Is  it  so  very  inconceivable  ? 

Era.  That  I  should  have  been  three  years  in  your  service, 
and  never  heard  them  mentioned,  is  somewhat  strange. 

Stra.     Pshaw !     Blockhead ! 

Era.     You  have  been  married,  then  ? 

Stra.     Well — go,  go,  and  prepare  for  our  journey. 

Era.     That  I  can  do  in  five  minutes.  [Going. 

Stra.     I  shall  (jome  and  write  the  letter  directly. 

Era.     Very  well,  sir.  [Exit^  l. 

Stra.  Yes,  I'll  take  them  with  me.  I'll  accustom  myself  to 
the  sight  of  them.     The  innocents !     They  shall  not  be  poisoned 


Scene  ii.]  the  stkangek.  47 

by  the  refinements  of  society.  Ratlier  let  them  hunt  their  daily 
snstejiance  upon  desert  island  with  their  bow  and  arrow ;  or 
creep,  like  torbid  Hottentots,  into  a  corner,  and  stare  at  each 
other.  Better  to  do  nothing  than  to  do  evil.  Fool  that  I  was, 
to  be  prevailed  upon  once  more  to  exhibit  myself  among  these 
apes!  What  a  ridiculous  figure  shall  I  make!  And  in  the 
character  of  a  suitor,  too.  He  cannot  be  serious.  'Tis  but  some 
friendly  artifice  to  draw  me  from  my  solitude.  Why  did  I  pro- 
mise him  ?  Yet,  my  sufferings  have  been  many  ;  and  to  oblige  a 
friend,  why  should  I  hesitate  to  add  another  painful  hour  to  the 
wretched  calendar  of  my  life  !  I'll  go,  I'll  go.  \_Exit  into  Lodge- 


Scene  II. — The  Antechamber, 
,    Enter  CnAKLorTE,  r. 

Char.  No,  indeed,  my  lady  !  If  you  choose  to  bury  yourself 
in  the  country,  I  shall  take  my  leave.  I  am  not  calculated  for 
a  country  life.  And,  to  sum  up  all,  when  I  think  of  this  Mrs. 
Haller 

Enter  Solomon,  l. 

Sol.  ( Overhearing  her  last  words.)  What  of  Mrs.  Haller,  my 
sweet  Miss  ? 

Char.  Why,  Mr.  Solomon,  who  is  Mrs.  Haller?  You  know 
everything ;  you  hear  everything. 

Sol.  I  have  received  no  letters -from  any  part  of  Europe  on 
the  subject.  Miss. 

Char.  ^  But  who  is  to  blame?  The  Count  and  Countess. 
She  dines  with  them,  and  at  this  very  moment  is  drinking  tea 
with  them.     Is  this  proper  ? 

Sol.     By  no  means. 

Char.  Should  not  a  Count  and  Countess,  in  all  their  actions, 
show  a  proper  degree  of  pride  and  pomposity  ? 

Sol.     To  be  sure !     To  be  sure  they  should  ! 

Cha/r.  No,  I  won't  submit  to  it.  I'll  tell  her  ladyship,  when 
I  dress  her  to-morrow,  that  either  Mrs.  Haller  or  I  must  quit  the 
house. 


48  THE    STRANGER.  [AcT    IV. 

Sol.  {Seeing  the  Baron.)     St ! 

Enter  Bakon,  r. 

Bar.     Didn't  I  hear  Mrs.  Haller's  name  here  'i 

Sol.  {Confused.)     Why — yes — we — we 

Bar.  Charlotte,  tell  my  sister  I  wish  to  see  her  as  soon  as 
the  tea-table  is  removed.  {^Crosses,  l. 

Char.     Either  she-or  I  go,  that  I'm  determined.    \_Exit,  r. 

Bar.     May  I  ask  what  it  was  you  were  saying  ? 

Sol.  Why,  please  your  Honorable  Lordship,  we  were  talk- 
ing here  and  there — this  and  that 

Bar.     1  almost  begin  to  suspect  some  secret. 

Sol.  Secret !  Heaven  forbid  !  Mercy  on  us !  No  !  I  should 
have  had  letters  on  the  subject  if  there  had  been  a  secret. 

Bar.  Well,  then,  since  it  was  no  secret,  I  presume  I  may 
know  your  conversation. 

Sol.  You  do  us  great  honor,  my  lord  Why,  then,  at  tirst, 
we  were  making  a  few  common  place  observations.  Miss 
Charlotte  remarked  we  all  had  our  faults.  I  said,  "Yes." 
Soon  after,  1  remarked  that  the  best  persons  in  the  world  were 
not  without  their  weaknesses.     She  said,  "Yes." 

Bar.  If  you  referred  to  Mi's.  Haller's  faults  and  weaknesses, 
I  am  desirous  to  hear  more. 

Sol.  Sure  enough,  sir,  Mrs.  Haller  is  an  excellent  woman ; 
but  she's  not  an  angel,  for  all  that.  I  am  an  old  faithful  ser- 
vant to  his  Excellency  the  Count,  and  therefore  it  is  my  duty  to 
speak  when  anything  is  done  disadvantageous  to  his  interest. 

Bar.     Well ! 

Sol.  For  instance,  now ;  his  Excellency  may  think  he  has 
at  least  some  score  of  dozens  of  the  old  six-and-twenty  hock. 
Mercy  on  us !  There  are  not  ten  dozen  bottles  left ;  and  not  a 
drop  has  gone  down  my  throat,  I'll  swear. 

Bar.  {SmiUng.)     Mrs.  Haller  has  not  drank  it,  I  suppose  ? 

Sol.  Not  she  herself,  for  she  never  drinks  wine.  But  if 
anybody  be  ill  in  the  village,  any  poor  woman  lying-in,  away 
goes  a  bottle  of  the  six-and-twenty !  Innumerable  are  the  times 
that  I've  reproved  her :  but  she  always  answers  me  snappishly, 
that  she  will  be  responsible  for  it. 


Scene  il]  the  stranger.  49 

Bar.     So  will  I,  Mr.  Solomon. 

Sol.  Oh,  with  all  my  heart,  your  Honorable  Lordship.  It 
makes  no  difference  to  me.  I  had  the  care  of  the  cellar  twenty 
years,  and  can  safely  take  my  oath,  that  I  never  gave  the  poor  a 
single  drop  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life. 

Bar.     How  extraordinary  is  this  woman !  [  Crosses,  r. 

Sol.  Extraordinary !  One  can  make  nothing  of  her.  To- 
day, the  vicar's  wdfe  is  not  good  enough  for  her.  To-morrow, 
you  may  see  her  sitting  with  all  the  women  in  the  village.  To 
be  sure,  she  and  I  agree  pretty  well ;  for  between  me  and  your 
Honorable  Lordship,  she  has  cast  an  eye  upon  my  son  Peter. 

Bar.     Has  she  ? 

Sol.  Yes.  Peter's  no  fool,  I  assure  you.  The  schoolmaster 
is  teaching  him  to  write.  Would  your  Honorable  Lordship 
please  to  see  a  specimen  ?  I'll  go  for  his  copy-book.  He  makes 
his  pot-hooks  capitally. 

Bar.  Another  time,  another  time.  Good  bye  for  the  pres- 
ent, Mr.  Solomon.  (Solomon  hoios  without  attempting  to  go.) 
Good  day,  Mr.  Solomon. 

Sol.  {Not  understanding  the  hint.)  Your  Honorable  Lord- 
ship's most  obedient  servant. 

Bar.    Mr.  Solomon,  I  wish  to  be  alone. 

Sol.  As  your  lordship  commands.  If  the  time  should  seem 
long  in  my  absence,  and  your  lordship  wishes  to  hear  the  newest 
news  from  the  seat  of  war,  you  need  only  send  for  old  Solomon. 
I  have  letters  from  Leghorn,  Cape  Horn  and  every  known  part 
of  the  habitable  globe.  [Exit,  l. 

Bar.  Tedious  old  fool!  Yet  hold.  Did  he  not  speak  in 
praise  of  Mrs.  Haller?  Pardoned  be  his  rage  for  news  and 
politics. 

Enter  Countess,  r. 

Well,  sister,  have  you  spoken  to  her  ? 

Countess.  I  have  :  and  if  you  do  not  steer  for  another  haven, 
you  will  be  doomed  to  drive  upon  the  ocean  for  ever. 

Bar.     She  is  married  ? 

Countess,     I  don't  know. 

Bar.     Is  she  of  a  good  family  ? 


50  THE   STRANGER.  [AoT   IV. 

Countess.     I  can't  tell. 

Bar.    Does  she  dislike  me  ? 

Coxmtess.     Excuse  my  making  a  reply. 

Bar.  I  thank  you  for  your  sisterly  affection,  and  the  explicit- 
ness  of  your  communications.  Luckily,  I  placed  little  reliance 
on  either,  and  have  found  a  friend,  who  will  save  your  ladyship 
all  further  trouble. 

Countess.     A  friend ! 

Bar.  The  Stranger,  who  saved  your  son's  life  this  morning, 
proves  to  be  my  intimate  friend. 

Countess.     What's  his  name  ? 

Bar.     I  don't  know. 

Countess,     Is  he  of  good  family  ? 

Bar.    I  can't  tell. 

Countess.     Will  he  come  hither? 

Bar.     Excuse  my  making  a  reply. 

Countess.    Well,  the  retort  is  fair — but  insufferable. 

Bar.  You  can't  object  to  the  Da  Cajpo  of  youl*  own  composi- 
tion. 

Enter  Count  and  Mrs.  Haller,  r. 

Count.  Zounds  !  do  you  think  1  am  Xenocrates;  or  like  the 
poor  sultan  with  marble  legs  %  There  you  leave  me,  tete-a-tete 
with  Mrs.  Haller,  as  if  my  heart  were  a  mere  flint.  So  you 
prevailed,  brother.     The  Stranger  will  come  then,  it  seems. 

Bar.     I  expect  him  every  minute. 

Count.  I  am  glad  to  hear  it  One  companion  more,  how- 
ever.    In  the  country  we  nevei*  can  have  too  many. 

Bar.  This  gentleman  will  not  exactly  be  an  addition  to  your 
circle,  for  he  leaves  this  place  to-morrow. 

[  Crosses  behind  Mrs.  Haller^  r. 

Cownt.  But  he  won't,  I  think.  Now,  Lady  Wintersen, 
summon  all  your  charms.  There  is  no  art  in  conquering  us 
poor  devils ;  but  this  strange  man  who  dcjes  not  care  a  doit  for 
you  all  together,  is  worth  your  efforts.  Try  your  skiU.  I 
shan't  be  jealous. 

Countess.    I  allow  the  conquest  to  be  worth  the  trouble. 


Scene  i.J  the  stranger.  51 

But  what  Mrs.  Haller  has  not  been  able  to  effect  in  three 
months,  ought  not  to  be  attempted  by  me. 

Mt8.  H.  Oh,  madam,  he  has  given  me  no  opportunity  of  try- 
ing the  force  of  my  charms,  for  I  never  once  happened  to  see 
him. 

Count,     Then  he's  a  blockhead,  and  you  an  idler. 

8ol.  (  Without^  L.)     This  way,  sir !     This  way  ! 

Enter  Solomon,  l. 

8ol.     The  Stranger  begs  leave  to  have  the  honor 

Count.    Welcome!     Welcome!  [^a?^^  Solomon. 

[Buns  to  meet  the  Stranger,  whom  he  conducts  in  by  the 

hand. 
My  dear  sir — Lady  Wintersen — Mrs.  Haller 

[Mrs  Haller,  as  soon  as  she  sees  the  Stranger,  shrieks,  and 
swoons  in  the  arms  of  the  Baron.  The  Stranger  casts  a 
look  at  her,  and,  struck  with  astonishment  and  horror, 
rushes  out  of  the  room,  l.  2%6  Baron  and  Countess  hear 
Mrs.  Haller  off,  r.  ;   Count  following  in  great  surprise. 

END  OF    act  IV. 


ACT    Y. 

Scene  I. — The  Antechamber. 
Enter  Baron,  r. 

Bar.  Oh!  deceitful  hope!  Thou  phantom  of  future  hap- 
piness. To  thee  have  I  stretched  out  my  arms,  and  thou  hast 
vanished  into  air !  Wretched  Steinfort !  The  mystery  is  solved. 
She  is  the  wife  of  my  friend  !  I  cannot  myself  be  happy,  but 
I  may,  perhaps,  be  able  to  reunite  two  lovely  souls  whom  cruel 
fate  has  severed.  Ha!  they  are  here.  I  must  propose  it 
instantly. 

Enter  Countess  and  Mrs.  Haller,  r. 
Countess.    Into  the  garden,  my  dear  friend !     Into  the  air ! 


62  THE    STRANGER.  [AcT    ^•. 

Mrs.  H.  I  am  quite  well.  Do  not  alarm  yourselves  on  my 
account. 

Bar.  Madam,  pardon  my  intrusion ;  but  to  lose  a  moment 
may  be  fatal.  He  means  to  quit  the  country  to-morrow.  We 
must  devise  means  to  reconcile  you  to  the  Stranger. 

Mrs.  H.  How,  my  lord !  You  seem  acquainted  with  my 
history  ? 

Bar.  I  am.  Waldbourg  has  been  my  friend  ever  since  we 
were  boys.  We  served  together  from  the  rank  of  cadet.  We 
have  been  separated  seven  years.  Chance  brought  us  this  day 
together,  and  his  heart  was  open  to  me. 

Mrs.  H.  How  do  I  feel  what  it  is  to  be  in  the  presence  of 
an  honest  man,  when  I  dare  not  meet  his  eye. 

Bar.  H  sincere  repentance,  if  j^ears  without  reproach,  do  not 
give  us  a  title  to  man's  forgiveness,  what  must  we  expect  here- 
after ?  No,  lovely  penitent !  your  contrition  is  complete.  Error 
for  a  moment  wrested  from  slumbering  virtue  the  dominion  of 
your  heart ;  but  she  awoke,  and,  with  a  look,  banished  her  enemy 
forever.  I  know  my  friend.  He  has  the  firmness  of  a  man ; 
but,  witli  it,  the  gentlest  feelings  of  your  sex.  I  hasten  to  him. 
With  the  fire  of  pure,  disinterested  friendship  will  1  enter  on 
this  work;  that,  when  I  look  back  upon  my  past  life,  I  may 
derive  from  this  good  action  consolation  in  disappointment,  and 
even  resignation  in  despair.  [Going,  l. 

Mrs.  H.  {Crosses,  c.)  Oh,  stay!  What  would  you  d(^? 
No !  never !  My  husband's  honor  is  sacred  to  me.  I  love  him 
unutterably  :  but  never,  never  can  I  be  his  wife  again,  even  if 
he  were  generous  enough  to  pardon  me. 
t  JSar.  Madam  !  Can  you.  Countess,  be  serious  ? 
\  Mrs.  E.  Not  that  title,  I  beseech  you !  I  am  not  a  child 
who  wishes  to  avoid  deserved  punishment.  What  were  my 
penitence,  if  1  hoped  advantage  from  it  beyond  the  consciousiie>s 
of  atonement  for  past  offence  ? 

Countess.     But  if  your  husband  himself 

Mrs.  H.  Oh !  he  will  not— he  cannot !  And  let  him  rest 
assured  I  never  would  replace  my  honor  at  the  expense  of  his. 

Bar.    He  still  loves  you. 


Scene  ii.]  the  stranger.  ^  -53 

Mrs.  H.  Loves  me  !  Then  he  must  not — no — he  must  purify 
his  heart  from  a  weakness  which  would  degrade  him  ! 

Bar.  Incomparable  woman  !  I  go  to  my  friend — perhaps 
for  the  last  time  !     Have  you  not  one  word  to  send  to  him  ? 

Mrs.  H.  Yes,  I  have  two  requests  to  make.  Often,  when, 
in  excess  of  grief,  I  have  despaired  of  e\ery  consolation,  I  have 
thought  I  should  be  easier  if  I  might  behold  my  husband  once 
again,  acknowledge  my  injustice  to  him,  and  take  a  gentle  leave 
of  him  forever.  This,  therefore,  is  my  first  request — a  conversa- 
tion for  a  few  short  minutes,  if  he  does  not  quite  abhor  the  sight 
of  me.  My  second  request  is — oh — not  to  see,  but  to  hear  some 
account  of  my  poor  children. 

Bar.  If  humanity  and  fi-iendship  can  avail,  he  will  not  for 
a  moment  delay  your  wishes. 

Countess.     Heaven  be  with  you ! 

Mrs.  H.     And  my  prayei-s.  {Exit  Baeox,  l. 

Countess.  Come,  my  friend,  come  into  the  air,  till  he  returns 
with  hope  and  consolation. 

Mrs.  H.  Oh,  my  heart,  how  art  thou  afflicted!  My  lius- 
band  !  My  little  ones !  Past  joys  and  future  fears.  Oh,  dearest 
madam,  there  are  moments  in  which  we  live  years ;  moments 
which  steal  the  roses  from  the  cheek  of  health,  and  plough  deep 
furrows  in  the  brow  of  youth. 

Counters  Discard  these  sad  reflections.  ( Crosses^  l.)  Come, 
let  us  walk.  The  sun  will  set  soon  ;  let  nature's  beauties  dis- 
sipate anxiety. 

Mrs.  H.  Alas !  Y  es,  the  setting  sun  is  a  proper  scene  for 
me. 

Countess.     Kever  forget  that  a  morning  will  succeed. 

{Exeunt^  l. 

Scene  II. — The  Shirts  of  the  Park^  Lodge,  c&c,  as  hefore. 
Enter  B^:ro^,  from  Gates. 
Bar.  On  earth,  there  is  but  one  such  pair.  They  shall  not 
be  parted.  Yet  what  I  have  undertaken  is  not  so  easy  as  I  at 
first  hoped.  What  can  I  answer  when  he  asks  me  whether  I 
would  persuade  him  to  renounce  his  character  and  l^ecome  the 
derision  of  society  ?    For  he  is  right :  a  faithless  wife  is  a  dishonor ; 


64  «  THE    STliANGER.  [AcT   V. 

and  to  forgive  her  is  to  share  her  shame.  What  though  Ade- 
laide may  be  an  exception ;  a  young  deluded  girl,  who  has  so 
long  and  so  sincerely  repented ;  yet  what  cares  an  unfeeling 
world  for  this  ?  The  world !  He  has  quitted  it.  'Tis  evident 
he  loves  her  still ;  and  upon  this  assurance  builds  ray  sanguine 
heart  the  hope  of  a  happy  termination  to  an  honest  enterprise. 

Enter  Francis  with  two  children^  William  amd  Amelia,  r. 

Fra.  (r.  c.)     Come  along,  my  pretty  ones — come.  ^ 

Will.  (l.  c.)     Is  it  far  to  home ! 

Fra.     No,  we  shall  be  there  directly  now. 

Bar.  (l.)     Hold !     Whose  children  are  these  % 

Fra.    My  master's. 

Will.     Is  that  my  father  ? 

Bar.  It  darts  like  lightning  through  my  brain.  A  word  with 
you.  (Francis  jpiits  the  cliildren  a  little  hacJc.)  I  know  you  love 
your  master.  Strange  things  have  happened  liere.  Your  master 
has  found  his  wife  again. 

Fra.     Indeed  !     Glad  to  hear  it. 

Bar.     Mrs.  Ilaller 

Fra.     Is  she  his  wife  ?     Still  more  glad  to  hear  it. 

Bar.     But  he  is  determined  to  go  from  her. 

Fra.     Oh ! 

Bar.     We  must  try  to  prevent  it. 

Fra.     Surely 

Bar.  The  unexpected  aj^pearance  of  the  children  may  per- 
liaps  assist  us. 

Fra.     How  so  ? 

Bar.  Hide  yourself  with  them  in  that  hut.  Before  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  is  passed  you  shall  know  more. 

Fra.     But 

Bar.     No  more  questions,  I  entreat  you.     Time  is  precious. 

Fra.  Well,  well ;  questions  are  not  much  in  my  way.  Come, 
children.  [^Takes  them  in  ea^h  hand. 

Will.    Why,  I  thought  you  told  me  I  should  see  my  father  ? 

Fra.     So  you  shall,  my  dear.     Come,  moppets. 

[  Goes  into  the  Hut  with  the  Children^  l.  u.  e. 

Bar.     Excellent!     I  promise  myself  nnich  from  this  little 


Scene  ii.]  the  stk anger.  55 

artifice.  If  the  mild  look  of  the  mother  fails,  the  innocent  smiles 
of  these,  his  own  children,  will  surely  find  the  way  to  his  heart. 
{Taps  at  the  Lodge  door  ;  the  Stranger  comes  out.)  Charles,  I 
wdsh  you  joy. 

Stra.     Of  what  ? 

Bar.     You  have  found  her  again. 

Stra.  Show  a  bankrupt  the  treasure  which  he  once  possessed 
and  then  congratulate  him  on  the  amount ! 

Bar.     Why  not,  if  it  be  in  your  power  to  retrieve  the  whole  ? 

Stra.  I  understand  you :  you  are  a  negotiator  from  my  wife. 
It  won't  avail. 

Bar.  Learn  to  know  your  wi  fe  better.  Yes,  I  am  a  messenger 
from  her ;  but  without  power  to  treat.  ,Slie,  who  loves  you  im- 
utterably,  who  without  you  never  »an  be  happy,  renounces  your 
forgiveness;  because,  as  she  thinks,  your  honor  is  incompatible 
with  such  a  weakness. 

Stra.     Pshaw !     I  am  not  to  be  caught. 

Bar.     Charles,  consider  well 

Stra.  Steinfort,  let  me  explain  all  this.  I  have  lived  here 
three  years.     Adelaide  knew  it. 

Bar.     Knew  it!     She  never  saw  you  till  to  day. 

Stra.  That  you  may  make  fools  l>elieve.  Hear  further  ;  she 
knows,  too,  that  I  am  not  a  common  sort  of  man  ;  that  my  heart 
is  not  to  be  attacked  in  the  usual  manner.  She,  therefore,  framed 
a  deep-concerted  plan.  She  played  a  charitable  part,  but  in 
such  a  way,  that  it  always  reached  my  ears.  She  played  a  pious, 
modest,  reserved  part,  in  order  to  excite  my  curiosity.  And,  at 
last,  to-day,  she  plays  the  prude.  She  refuses  my  forgiveness, 
in  hopes,  by  this  generous  device,  to  extort  it  from  my  com- 
passion. 

Ba^r.  Charles,  I  have  listened  to  you  with  astonishment. 
This  is  a  weakness  only  to  be  pardoned  in  a  man  who  has  so 
often  been  deceived  by  the  world.  Your  wife  has  expressly 
and  steadfastly  declared  that  she  will  not  accept  your  forgive- 
ness, even  if  you  yourself  were  weak  enough  to  offer  it 

Stra.     What  then  has  brought  you  hither  ? 

Bar.  More  than  one  reason.  First,  I  am  come  in  my  own 
name,  as  your  friend  and  comrade,  to  conjure  you  solemnlj-  not 


56  THE    STRANGER.  [ACT    V. 

to  spurn  this  creature  fi-om  you ;  for,  by  my  soul,  you  will  not 
find  her  equal. 

Stra.     (rive  yourself  no  further  trouble. 

Bar.     Be  candid,  Charles.     You  love  her  still  ? 

Stra.     Alas !  yes. 

Bar.  Her  sincere  repentance  has  long  since  obliterated  her 
crime. 

Stra.  Sir !  a  wife,  once  induced  to  forfeit  her  honor,  must 
be  capable  of  a  second  crime. 

Bar.  Not  so,  Charles.  Ask  your  heart  what  portion  of  the 
blame  may  be  your  own. 

Stra.     Mine  ? 

Bar.  Yours.  Who  told  you  to  marry  a  thoughtless  inexpe- 
rienced girl?  One  scarce  expects  established  principles  at  ^y^- 
and-twenty  in  a  man,  yet  you  require  them  in  a  gii-1  of  sixteen ! 
But  of  this  no  more.  She  has  erred :  she  has  repented  ;  and, 
during  three  years,  her  conduct  has  been  so  far  above  reproach, 
that  even  the  piercing  eye  of  calumny  has  not  discovered  a 
speck  upon  this  radiant  orb. 

Stra.  Now,  were  I  to  believe  all  this — and  I  confess  I  would 
willingly  believe  it — yet  she  can  never  again  be  mine. -^  =Ah ! 
what  a  feast  would  it  be  for  the  painted  dolls  and  vermih  of 
the  world,  when  I  appeared  among  them  with  my  runaway  wife 
upon  my  arm  !  What  mocking,  whispering,  pouting  !  Never ! 
Never!     Never!  \_Cro8  m^\.. 

Bar.  Enough!  .  As  a  friend  I  have  done  inyduty;  I  now 
ajDrpear  as  Adelaide's  ambassador.  She  requests  one  moment's 
conversation  :  she  wishes  once  again  to  see  you,  and  never  more ! 
You  cannot  deny  her  this  only,  this  last  request. 

Stra.  I  understand  this,  too.  She  thinks  my  firmness  will  l)e 
melted  by  her  tears :  she  is  mistaken.     She  may  come. 

Bar.  She  will  come  to  make  you  feel  how  much  you  mis- 
take hei*.     I  go  for  her. 

Stra.     Another  word. 

Bar.     Another  word ! 

Stra.  Give  her  this  paper,  and  these  jewels.  They  belong 
to  her.  S^Presenting  them. 

Bar.     That  you  may  do  yourself.  {^Exit  at  Gate,  c. 


Scene  il]  the  stkanger.  57 

Stra.  The  last  anxious  moment  c^f  mv  life  draws  near.  I 
shall  see  her  once  again ;  I  shall  see  her  on  whom  my  soul 
doats.  Is  this  the  language  of  an  injured  Iiiisbaud  ?  What  is 
this  principle  which  we  call  honor  ?  Is  it  a  feeling  of  the  heart, 
or  a  quibble  in  the  brain?  I  must  be  resolute:  it  cannot  now 
be  otherwise.  Let  me  speak  solemnly,  yet  mildly ;  and  beware 
that  nothing  of  reproach  escape  my  lips. 

Enter  Countess,  Mrs.  Hallek  and  Baron,  ^6W2-  Gates. 

Yes,  her  penitence  is  real,  it  is  real.  She  shall  not  be  obliged 
to  live  in  mean  dependence ;  she  shall  be  mistress  of  herself, 
she  shall.  Ha !  they  come.  Awake,  insulted  pride !  Protect 
me,  injured  honor !  {Gets  over  to  r.  of  Stage. 

Mrs.  H.  {^Advances  slowly^  and  in  a  tremor^  l.  Colntess 
attemjpts  to  support  her.)  Leave  me  now,  I  beseech  you. 
(Baron  and  Countess  retire  into  the  hut,  l.  u.  e.  Approaches 
the  Stranger,  who,  with  averted  countenance,  and  in  extreme 
agitation,  awaits  her  address.)     My  lord ! 

Stra.  ( With  gentle  tremulous  utterance,  and  face  still  turned 
away.)    What  would  you  with  me,  Adelaide  ? 

Mrs.  II.  {Much  agitated^)  No — for  Heaven's  sake !  I  was 
not  prepared  for  this — Adelaide! — Xo,  no.  For  Heaven's 
sake !     Hai-sh  words  alone  are  suited  to  a  culprit's  ear. 

Stra.  {Endeavoring  to  give  his  voice  firmness.)  Well,  ma- 
dam I 

Mrs.  H,  Oh !  If  you  will  ease  my  heart,  if  you  will  spare 
and  pity  me,  use  reproaches. 

Stra.  Reproaches !  Here  they  are ;  here  on  my  sallow 
cheek — here  in  my  hollow  eye — here  in  my  faded  form.  These 
reproaches  I  could  not  spare  you. 

Mrs.  H.  Were  I  a  hardened  sinner,  this  forbearance  would 
be  charity :  but  1  am  a  suffering  penitent,  and  it  overpowers 
me  !  Alas !  then  I  must  be  the  herald  of  my  own  shame.  For 
where  shall  I  find  peace  till  I  have  eased  my  soul  by  my  con- 
fession. 

Stra.  No  confession,  madam.  1  release  you  from  every 
humiliation.     I  perceive  you  feel  that  we  must  part  forever. 

Mrs.  H.    I  know  it.     Nor  come  I  here  to  supplicate   your 


58  THE    STRANGER.  [AcT   V. 

pardon  ;  nor  has  my  lieart  contained  a  ray  of  hope  that  you 
would  grant  it.  All  I  dare  ask,  is,  that  you  will  not  curse  my 
memory. 

Stra.     Xo,  I  do  not  curse  you.     I  shall  never  curse  you. 

Mrs.  H.  From  the  inward  conviction  that  I  am  unworthy 
of  your  name,!  have,  during  three  j'ears  abandoned  it.  But 
this  is  not  enough ;  you  must  have  that  redress  which  will  en- 
able you  to  choose  another — another  wife ;  in  whose  chaste 
arms  may  Heaven  protect  your  hours  of  bliss  !  This  paper  will 
be  necessary  for  the  purpose ;  it  contains  a  written  acknowledg- 
ment of  my  guilt.  [  Offers  it,  trembling. 

Stra.  {Tearing  it.)  Perish  the  record  forever!  No,  Ade- 
laide, you  only  have  possessed  my  heart ;  and  I  am  not  ashamed 
to  own  it,  you  alone  will  reign  there  forever.  Your  own  sen- 
sations of  virtue,  your  resolute  honor,  forbid  you  to  profit  by 
my  weakness;  and  even  if — this  is  beneath  a  man!  But — 
never — will  another  fill  Adelaide's  place  here. 

Mrs,  H.  Then  nothing  now  remains  but  that  one  sad,  hard, 
just  word — farewell !  [^Going,  l. 

Stra.  Stay  a  moment.  For  some  months  we  have,  without 
knowing  it,  lived  near  each  other.  I  have  learnt  much  good  of 
you.  You  have  a  heart  open  to  the  wants  of  your  fellow  crea- 
tures. 1  am  happy  that  it  is  so.  You  shall  not  be  without  the 
power  of  gratifying  your  benevolence.  I  know  you  have  a  spirit 
that  must  shrink  from  a  state  of  obligation.  This  paper,  to 
which  the  whole  remnant  of  my  fortune  is  pledged,  secures 
you  independence,  Adelaide;  and  let  the  only  recom:nendation 
of  the  gift  be  that  it  will  administer  to  you  the  means  of  in- 
dulging in  charity,  the  divine  propensity  of  your  nature. 

Mrs.  II.  Never !  To  the  labor  of  my  hands  alone  will  I 
own  my  sustenance.  A  morsel  of  bread,  moistened  with  the 
tear  of  penitenc^e,  will  suffice  my  wishes,  and  exceed  my  merits. 
It  would  be  an  additicnial  reproach,  to  think  that  I  served  my- 
self, or  even  others,  from  the  bounty  of  the  man  whom  I  had 
so  deeply  injured. 

Stra.     Take  it,  madam  ;  take  it. 

Mrs.  H.  I  have  deserved  this.  But  1  throw  myself  upon 
your  generosity.     Have  compassion  on  me! 


Scene  ii.]  the  stkanger.  59 

Stra.  {Aside.)  Yillain!  Of  what  a  woman  hast  thou  robbed 
me !  {Puts  up  thepajper.)  Well,  madam,  I  respect  your  senti- 
ments and  withdraw  my  request ;  but  on  condition  that  if  ever 
you  shall  be  in  want  of  anything  I  may  be  the  first  and  only 
person  in  the  world  to  whom  you  will  make  your  application. 

Mrs.  H.     I  promise  it,  my  lord. 

Stra.  And  now  I  may,  at  least,  desire  you  to  take  back  what 
is  your  own — your  jewels.  [Gives  her  the  cdsket. 

Mrs.  H.  {Opens  it  and  vjeejps.)  How  well  do  I  recollect  the 
sweet  evening  when  you  gave  me  these !  That  evening  my 
father  joined  our  hands ;  and  joyfully  1  pronounced  the  oath 
of  eternal  fidelity.  It  is  broken.  This  locket  you  ga\e  me  on 
my  birthday.  That  was  a  happy  day !  AVe  had  a  country 
feast ;  how  cheerful  we  all  were !  This  bracelet  1  received 
after  my  William  was  born !  No !  Take  them — take  them  ;  I 
cannot  take  these,  unless  you  wish  that  the  sight  of  them  should 
be  an  incessant  reproach  to  my  almost  broken  heart. 

[Gives  them  hack. 

Stra.  I  must  go.  My  soul  and  pride  will  hold  no  longer. 
Farewell. 

Mrs.  H.  Oh !  But  one  minute  more !  An  answer  to  but 
one  more  question.  Feel  for  a  mother's  heart  I  Are  my  child- 
ren still  alive  % 

Stra.     Yes,  they  are  alive. 

Mrs.  H.     And  well  ? 

Stra.     Yes,  they  are  well. 

Mrs.  H.  Heaven  be  praised !  William  must  be  much 
grown  ? 

Stra.     I  believe  so. 

Mrs.  II.  What !  Have  you  not  seen  them,  then  ?  And 
little  Amelia,  is  she  still  yom  favorite  ?  {The  Stranger,  who  is 
in  violent  agitation  throughout  this  scene^  remains  in  silent 
contention  hetvjeen  honor  and  affection.)  Oh !  generous  man, 
allow  me  to  behold  them  once  again !  Let  me  once  more  kiss 
the  features  of  their  father  in  his  babes,  and  1  will  kneel  to 
you,  and  part  with  them  forever.    [She  kneels-  he  raises  her. 

Stra.  Willingly,  Adelaide !  This  very  night.  I  expect  the 
children  ever}^  minute.     They  have  been  brought  up  near  this 


60  THE   STRANGER.  [AcT   V. 

spot.  I  have  already  sent  my  servant  for  them.  He  might, 
ere  this  time,  have  returned.  I  pledge  my  word  to  send  them 
to  the  Castle  as  soon  as  they  arrive.  There,  if  you  please,  they 
may  remain  till  daybreak  to-morrow ;  then  they  must  go  with 
me. 

[  Tlie  Countess  and  Baron,  having  re-entered  and  listened  to 
■  the  whole  conversation  with  the  warmest  sympathy^  exchange 
signals.  Baron  goes  into  Hid^  and  soon  returns  with  the 
Children.  He  gives  the  Girl  to  the  Countess,  who  places 
herself  hehind  the  Stranger.  He  himself  walks  with  the 
Boy  hehind  Mrs.  Haller. 

Mrs.  H.     In  this  world,  then,  we  have  no  more  to  say ! 

{Seizing  his  hand.)  Forget  a  wretcli  who  never  will  forget 
you.  Let  me  press  this  hand  once  more  to  my  lips — this  hand 
which  once   was  mine.      And   when   my  penance  sliall  have 

broken  my  heart, — ^when  we  again  meet  in  a  better  world 

Stra.     There,  Adelaide,  you  may  be  mine  again. 

Mrs:H.     fO'''     ^^'-  [Parting. 

\B\ity  as  they  are  going ^  she  encounters  the  Boy^  and  he  the  Girl. 

Children.     Dear  father!     Dear  mother! 

[They press  the  Children  in  their  arms  with  speechless  affec- 
tion ;  then  tear  themselves  away — gaze  at  each  other — 
spread  their  arms  and  rush  into  an  emhrace.  The  Child- 
ren run  and  cling  around  their  parents.  The  Curtain 
falls. 

DISPOSITION  OF  THE  CHARACTERS  AT  THE  FALL  OF 
THE  CURTAIN. 

Countess.  Baron. 

Amelia.  Stranger.  Mrs.  Haller.  William. 

the  end. 


A  NEW   COAJIC  IRISH  PLAY. 

FINNIGAN'S  FORTUNE. 

AN  IRISH  STEW  IN  THREE  ACTS. 
By  CHARLES  TOWNSEND, 

AUTHOR  OF   "RIO   GRANDE,"   "THE   SPY  OF   GETTYSBURG,"    "THE  JAIL   BIRD," 

"MOUNTAIN    WAIF,"    "THE    MAN   FROM    MAINE,"    "BORDER 

LAND,"    "TONY   THE  TRAMP,"    ETC. 

Five  male,  three  female  characters.  Modem  costumes.  Scenery,  two  interiors. 
Time  of  playing,  two  hours  and  u  quarter.  Tiiis  play  marks  a  new  departure  in  Irish 
plays,  and  every  dramatic  club  with  a  gfood  Irish  comedian  is  hound  to  have  it.  It 
depicts  life  among  the  middle  classes  of  New  Yorl<  Citv  with  the  same  deft  touches 
that  Mr.  Harrigan  employs  in  his  famous  "  Mulligan  Guard"  series.  It  is  full  of 
breezv  Irish  wit,  quaint  "humor,  hits  of  pathos,  and  the  action  is  so  rapid  that  it 
almost  "  plays  itself."  Larry  Finnigan,  the  good-natured  old  mason,  is  a  favorite 
role  with  the  author,  who  plays  it  with  marked  success.  Mrs.  Finnigan,  Dutch 
Jake,  his  daughter  Katy,  the  rascally  Count,  —  in  short,  all  the  characters,  are  first- 
class,  as  there  is  not  a  small  part  in  the  play. 

SYNOPSIS. 

ACT  1. — The  home  in  Finnigan's  Ailey,  New  York.  Mrs.  Finnigan's  ambition, 
"  And  me  a-dyin'to  see  tlie  Italian  Opery !  "  An  unwelcome  visitor.  RafFerty's 
news.  "  Me  wife's  mother's  uncle's  aunt  is  dead!"  On  a  strike.  "What  for 
I  dunno.  They  said  strike,  an' we  struck."  Rafferty  .n  hot  water.  Finnigan's 
song.  His  opinion  of  dudes.  Tammanv  Hall.  Pat  the  dainty.  "  He'll  be 
axin'  for  pie  next."  Katy's  reason.  "  Taffy."  Katv  gets  mad.  "  What  a  nice, 
quiet  time  I'm  having  tlie  day."  The  telegram.  Fortune  smiles.  "Now  I'll 
lick  the  Dutchman !  "     "  Is  dot  so  ?  "      Tableau. 

ACT  II.  —  Finnigan's  new  lunne  on  Murray  Hill.  Mrs.  Finnigan's  trouble.  How 
to  speak  "  Frinch."  Coney  Island.  The  Count  and  Lady  Hannah.  A  bit  of 
scandal.  Kaiy's  loyalty.  "  Hegorry,  the  ould  mon  has  wan  friend  left."  High 
society.  Snubs  all'  around.  Father  and  son.  The  bank  check.  A  bashful 
lover.  The  proposal.  "  Don't  you  dare  kiss  me!  "  A  jiretty  pair  of  swindlers. 
Lady  Hannah's  advice.  A  dangerous  game.  More  snubs.  Poor  Finnigan's 
desperation.  '*  I'll  connuit  suicide  av  it  costs  me  me  life."  Good  advice. 
Tempted.     "  It  looks  like  whiskey."     Finnigan's  assertion.     A  row. 

ACT  III.  —  The  next  morning.  Finnigan  a  wreck.  "  I'm  a  blowed-up  steam- 
boat! "  Husband  and  wife.  Cold  comfort.  Jake  brings  startling  news.  The 
swindlers  compare  notes.  Jake  wants  to  light.  "  Luff  me  got  at  him!  "  Finni- 
gan steps  in.  "  I  can  do  me  own  slugging."  The  attempted  murder.  The 
surprise.     Policeman  Ilafferty.     Finnigan's  vow.     Finale, 


TERMS. 

This  play  is  not  published,  nor  for  sale,  but  on  receipt  of  an 

Author's  Royalty  of  $10.00, 

paid  to  us,  we  will  mail  a  complete  set  of  the  plays,  prepared  directly  from  the 
Author's  Acting  Copy,  containing  explicit  stage  directions,  together  with  perpetual 
right  to  perform  the  play.  This  offer  afjplies  only  to  Amateurs.  The  Professional 
stage  right  is  retained  bv  the  author. 

A   SAMPLE    BOOK  will  lie  mailed  ON  receipt  of  $i.oo,  which  will  be  re- 
funded when  the  book  is  returned.    All  persons  are  warned  under  penalty  not  to 
Eroduce  this  play  without  due  authority  from  the  Author's  Agents,  WALTER  H. 
AKER  &  CO.,  BOSTON,   MASS. 


A  NEW  SOCIETY  DRAMA. 

THB  TRUSTEE. 

A.  F*i>A.Y  IN  KouR  Acts. 

By  WILLIAM    MAYNADIER    BROWNE. 

AuTHOB  OF  *'  A  Fool  for  Luck,"  "  Red  or  White,"  *'  Bachelor's  Hall," 
"  An  April  Day,"  "  Betty,"  etc. 

As  originally  performed  by  "  Tfie  Players,"  of  West  Newton,  Mass.,  at  City 
Hall,  November  24,  1890. 

Ten  male  and  five  female  characters.  Costumes,  modern  and  elegant. 
Scenery  three  easy  interiors,  capable,  however,  of  any  amount  of  elaboration. 
This  really  admirable  play,  upon  a  purely  American  subject,  with  American 
scenes  ami  American  characters,  is  a  capital  piece  for  a  good  company.  Its 
story  is  absorbing  in  interest,  its  dialogue  crisp  and  bright,  its  action  and  inci- 
dents stirring,  ita  tone  dignified  and  its  humor  refined.  In  its  general  character 
it  is  not  unlike  the  popular  "  Jim,  the  Penman,"  and  like  tliat  piece  every 
part  is  a  strong  and  important  one. 

Price 25  Cents. 


SYNOPSIS: 

ACT  T.  —Drawing-room  in  the  Trustee's  house.  A  doubtful  character.  A  tell- 
tale letter.  A  little  deal.  Barbara  and  business.  $60,000  in  bills.  Peacock's 
prescription.  Philip  and  Barbara.  "The  birthday  of  our  happiness."  The 
sleeping  draught.  "This  will  smooth  the  way  to  the  safe."  A  toasi. 
foiled. 

ACT  II.  — Office  of  the  Trustee.  The  blind  guardian.  The  burglary.  Puz- 
zled. "  My  eyes,  my  eyes  !  With  them  I  could  have  told."  The  Trustee  and 
his  trust  Suspicion.  Husband  and  wife.  The  inquiry.  "It  is  uselesii 
—  the  criminal  is  in  this  room  ! " 

ACT  III.  — The  Trustee's  house.  Under  arrest.  A  mystery.  "  We  mustj^rorr- 
him  innocent  in  spite  of  himself."  The  Trustee's  confession.  "It  is  not 
true."  Conn  O'Hara  to  the  rescue.  "Now's  your  chance.  Sure,  it's  askei- 
lam."  Husband  and  wife.  "Will  you  force  me  to  prove  your  guilt?' 
Light  at  last.    "  I  am  innocent  —  I  swear  it  on  my  honor  !  " 

ACT  IV. —  The  trial.  Pettibone  and  Peacock.  A  mysterious  errand.  Astron.: 
case.  The  blind  witness.  The  fur  coat.  Not  "proven.  The  hands  (>; 
JUSTICE.  "Hold  him!  These  are  the  hands  that  gagged  me!"  Run  t  . 
earth  at  last.  Counterfeit  money  and  real  affection.  "  Dora,  darling,  there  ^ 
not  a  cloud  left."    Acquitted. 


FOR  FEMALE   CHARACTERS. 

GAFFER  GREY'S  LEGACY. 

A.   CoNiEDY   IN    T^?vo   Acts. 
For  Female  Characters  Only. 

Eight  female  characters.  Costumes  modern  ;  mourning  dresses  in  the  first 
act.  gay  gowns  in  the  second.  A  very  sprightly  and  humorous  little  play,  tull  '>f 
i'Uiiian  nature  and  fun. 

Prire !.'»  Onfg. 


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